The Strings That Bind Us
by KayMoon24
Summary: The Avengers have a lot to learn about themselves and each other. Featuring all sorts of extra scenes of character building explorations, relationships, personal problems, romance, angst, tragedy, fear, and friendship. It's ALL here folks!
1. Disconnected

**AN:** Like everyone, I've fallen head over heels for _The Avengers_, and managed to grab quite a few comics and learn as much as I can about each of them. Now it's time I attempted to cover what the movie didn't: characters exploring, learning, fighting, and accepting one another. Now I'm _not_ trying to say _Avengers _didn't do that. It's just: I could seriously watch a 3 hour movie of them all sitting and interacting and TALKING. No explosions or fighting needed. (But always those are cool, just in case.) Alcoholism, daddy issues, Russian blackmail, brother issues, angst, romance, tragedy, friendship- find it here folks!

So here we go. Short, bits, longer wits, and other drawlings of my own idea of character growth and development of some _"Avengers"_scenes that we're left out. Oh yeah, we're heading to the nitty-gritty of what makes The Avengers tick. And even, what keeps them sane as well.

**The Avengers Learn To Deal With One Another's Issues:**

Chapter One: Disconnected

Summary:

Steve Rogers tries to do his best to understand the technology of the 21st century. Even if it means asking for help, or chucking the stupid thing out the window to do it.

* * *

Despite Tony's more innovative ideas that sparkled, gleamed, and damn near dehumanized the whole fortress that was the former frame of _Stark Tower_, Steve Rogers stayed out of sight, out a mind about the whole charade. He contented himself to sitting quietly at the table, or Tony's downstairs bar, fingers tightly woven together, and knuckles borne white with pressure. He didn't want all of that metal and swank. He just wanted a simple room. That was the big idea, anyway. Simple. But, as always, Stark opened his big mouth and decided that Steve's room would be "The pinnacle of a clash of_ old—"_ (Steve always never had time to brace himself for the severity that word brought to him—like the sound of a drill Sergent's gun—relentless, always present, always watching- _Are you forgetting how out of place you are? DROP AND GIVE ME 50—YEARS, WEEKS, MONTHS! Remember how alone you are, feel that, feel it slipping away—what year is it, what date is it, always know, watch, watch, check your_-)

He took a breath, blinked—opened his eyes. No water. No ice. No bomb. Just a voice. Steve snapped to attention discreetly. Tony's was still talking; his smooth, charismatic voice starting to sound more and more like a countdown to…

To what?

Steve's cheerful mouth turned into a worried frown that Tony disregarded with a turn of his heel, too caught up in his own wild, innovations, listing off brands and decor which names Steve had already forgotten.

"—and _new_," Tony continued with a shrug, his dark eyes flickering to the Captain's in a bodily motion that jested something coy, yet darker in the genius's diction, just edging on Steve's good nature to speak up. _Come on Gramps, I dare you to tell me you _hate_ it_, it seemed to bid. Steve merely turned the corners of his mouth pleasantly, feeling slightly sick inside.

"New," the blond repeated politely, an unsure, desperate smile lingering over his faces as he followed Tony into the aforementioned room. It was only all his lost decades of 40's finesse and the strictest of manners that allowed him to keep his grateful tone underneath his slowly building aggravation that tightened behind tenebrous blue eyes.

Now the idea of 'simple' was anything but. His four walls of calm where painted thick with dark hues of glass, plate and blue. All the furniture was slick, shiny, and unsettling in Steve's eyes just the same. A large, flatted television somehow clung to the top of a wall. A low bed with black sheets, shining clocks from different time zones around the United States watched the solider minute by minute, day by day. He tried his best to make do with his situation, but it wasn't long before the avoidable began to slip through his nervous cracks. He had trouble sleeping at night when the wide, ever glowing eyes of a 'digital' clock stared at him from the side table. The television was a complete disaster. Once he slept for a week with it on because the blasted thing didn't have an 'off' dial anywhere near it. And there was no way he was going to try to use that _ree-mote _gizmo again. Luckily he found the electricity outlet and pulled the plug from the thing, and soon left it unplugged from the wall, kicking the cord behind a glass framed dresser before anyone else caught on to his lack of nescience.

Thank goodness for the careful eye of the ever prevalent Miss Natasha that finally got it through Tony's pretentious head that it'd probably be best to let Steve have his boring, 'square' room just how he wanted it—as the Captain had dark purple circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and always seemed to be covered in a thin sheen of sweat from too brief, too nervous of showers, the idea that diligent, cold, omnipotence of some disembody voice that Stark always was jabberin' off too, could not only be _listening_, but _watching_ him as well…while he _showered _of all intimate places!

Tony easily let Steve do what he wanted after Natasha's suggestion. And, in all honestly, Steve found that wasn't that he didn't like Tony Stark. The guy was obviously bright, suave, and sometimes eerily, in his drawl or turn of phrase, or just completely lack of disregard, reminded Steve of his best friend Bucky…but it also meant that Steve didn't quite trust that Tony was telling him the whole truth of things. Never the less, he sought to give Stark the benefit of the doubt when Tony explained that _"Jarvis" _wasn't watching him, this wasn't _1984_—whatever_ that _meant—and that when the teammates were in their rooms, they were completely alone.

And it also meant that, as much as he just wanted to never see a new piece of 'advanced' technology again, he also accepted the cordless phone from Tony. A 'cell' phone, or 'mobile' or something or some other dig.

Now secluded in his room, Steve Rogers turned over onto his back, a tightly muscled arm resting on a lean, off-white pillow while the opposite lay across his chest, thumb mindlessly stroking the small, smooth back of the electronic that still wouldn't settle down on matter how many times he pushed or poked at it. At first, Steve just sought to ignore it. He decided that, for what the War was worth, he could just fake it using it. He could fake _everything._

He could fake that he understood the exchanges of microwaves, televisions sets, and invisible wires that somehow linked everyone together within 2012. He could fake that he knew what a MP3 was, or an Apple was something more than a fruit, or what 'rap' culturally represented.

He generally just tried to focus on what he did know. Like how he was just glad to have a bed. A real, four post frame with a mattress, a couple pillows and a single sheet. He didn't want for anything—in fact, a lot of the clothes that Tony had thrown at him that somehow spoke of 'sophistication and style' from the latest New York Men's Fashion magazine, he quickly donated to a local Good Will. He bought a couple of plain tan army slacks, a few new t-shirts, a brown jacket with white-wool lining, and a decent set of brown loafers. He enjoyed the width of his dresser along the west wall, the suture of a closest to the east and a chest to the south. All the space he was never allowed in his boyhood's farmhouse, or an army tent.

If there was anything to say about the future, it was that at least beds were the same. He still couldn't bring himself to sleep much, but to rise up every morning, and stare out the large, opaque window— run his fingers over the same cool glass that he was touching, to what was to him, just hours ago the same glass of his own apartment back in 1938…Bucky would knock at the door any second, begging him to come out to some new joint and pick up dolls—see Howard Stark's newest invention—see a picture show…

Steve forced himself to not think about Bucky. Faking it. _Faking _it.

Hell, he tried to sneak himself into every darn near Recruitment Office from the age of 16 to the age of 19. How hard could conquering the twenty first century be anyway?

He clutched his grip around a small, smooth electronic,_ cordless_ for pity's sake, phone. It felt so fragile and crush-able, yet entirely out of reach. He drew in a deep breath; bringing overly careful fingers to flick open the front of the casing, which simultaneously read out to him the time of _1800 hours, 2012._ Like a pulsing, flashing slap to the face, Steve snapped it shut quickly, his light blue eyes narrowed into the stitch that was forming the smile around his usually easy-going expression. He just couldn't _believe _it.

Somehow, trapped in the palm sized device, words from Tony Stark were resting, laced inside a tiny, shimmering looking parcel. It continued to press its image into the little square window in the outer shell. The idea of packaging reminded the solider of Sunday morning parcels, singing, city-weary tele-o-grams. Back in the days were if you wanted to have a _conversation_ with someone, you had to get up and do it _yourself._

Blond brows furrowed as he studied the telephone's keys, the pattern practically engraved into his memory like the Rosetta Stone. But without the ladder translation. It was all so useless to him. Here he was, a War Hero, and he felt so bombarded by these minute little black squares highlighted with different numbers, strange letters, and icons he didn't have the slightest clue were for. He had stared at it for so long, praying for an enlightening that never came.

Steve brought the device close to his face, eyelashes practically touching the numbers, when suddenly the thing began to tremble and shake in his palm like a grenade. Lightening quick, and more built in reflex than not, he let go instantaneously, lobbing the jittering phone through the air, getting it away from him as fast as possible, his heart suddenly in his mouth from sheer surprise. It struck the wall bluntly, and plopped down onto the grey soft carpet, continuing to shimmy and work itself into a frenzy until finally it just seemed to kneel over right there on the floor.

The blond blinked, wracking his brain for the clues that Stark had left for him in his long-winded speeches about cordless telephones, electric cars and voice-activated lights. But soon it was all turned around in his head. Was this the contraption that you needed to hit two buttons and it'd turn off? Or was it that _ree-mote _guy, that you'd have to point? Was he receiving a call when it shook? Or did this just mean that mini-messaging non-sense? He sighed into his hands, fingers moving through short yellow strands, locking his knees together.

Now he'd have to go ask someone.

_Again._

Steve nervously eyed the cordless phone, forcing himself not to belly-crawl towards it, because, _dang it_, he's slick enough to understand that none of him teammates would give him anything that would hurt him. Previously, all topsy-turvy fool-marks Captain America had made himself. For starters, Rogers first time in Tony Stark's tower nearly made the solider lose his mind in less than 20 seconds. Thor was the first in, accompanied by the shady fella Clint "Hawkeye", and Miss Romanoff—while Steve just remained dumbstruck about where the elevator operator was. Tony jovially slapped him across the back and led him inside, and then started speaking to no one in particular. Before Steve even had the nerve to turn and ask Stark if _he'd lost his marbles_, a sharp, clear, and perfectly inhuman voice resonated from someplace in the ceiling, making Steve jump and swivel around to find its source. He was used to over-coms of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s speakers, female narrators reading off charts and formations—but this…this voice…it was so…_unnatural…_

Needless to say, it wasn't the first of the many strange looks Steve received from his team. And Stark could only laugh at him. Continuously. Steve hid the embarrassment in his blush by studying the sleek, blue titles under his feet for the rest of the tour.

When he was sure the phone was dead, he carefully flicked it up his hand, and made for the door. The door was probably the only material in _Stark Tower_ that was made of something malleable and natural. It was wood—bleached, sanded, speckled with black, bits of dark red and highlights of off-white—and yeah, he still startled sometimes when he caught his reflection in it—but somehow, deep, deep down behind the façade, it was still _wood_. He stopped just before the handle, and ran a finger down the overly glossy frame, catching the melancholy gleam in his eyes, the polished thin, worn press of his lips. He closed his eyes tightly, bracing himself for the same feeling of _déjà vu _that he felt every time he left his room for the main hall. He couldn't shake the motion that he wasn't just passing into another time period from his safe, centered, professional room—but into another world all together.

A world that he felt he'd never quite fit into. No matter how hard he tried to spruce and smart himself up.

He walked quietly through the echoing, darkened halls, stopping occasionally to glance at the phone in his hand, weary of its next plan of attack. Two silver metal doors opened up to Tony's living room, and the shock of white light mixing with the backwards darkness of the halls caused Steve's eyes blank momentarily. A long, circling couch took center stage before a large, flat screen television. Giant landscape windows stretched from floor to ceiling, showing off all of the glinting, sunlit skyscrapers of New York City. Instantaneous relief washed over the solider, as thankfully there was neither Stark nor Clinton to jeer him about his sudden confusion over something that was 'apparently as simple as a shell flip phone'. The grip on the phone tightened.

But he wasn't alone.

Hunched in a round, sleek looking chair, Bruce Banner sat at the open kitchen counter; a device called a 'computer' sprawled across his lap. Steve sighed. Maybe it wasn't too keen on cordless phones, or ridiculous television sets, or disembodied robot voices—the _computer _seemed to be the black hole that Steve's slowly building universe was being sucked into. He didn't get them. At all.

It wasn't that he was too terribly shocked at their existence—waking up less than 4 months ago to the twenty first century causes most of everything to lose that effect—but it was just that _everyone_ had one. He contented himself to thinking that most high technological equipment was generally meant for the army, Government, President, and S.H.I.E.L.D. No one else. But yet, somehow, someway, this abyss of copulations was in the lap of nearly everyone he met. And perhaps even worse than the new lingo of today that made Steve feel out the more outdated, the language of this service called the _'internet' _seemed to saturate the most basic education of the public. He couldn't escape it.

For instance: when he went to buy a quart of milk at a gas station near Fifth Avenue, the clerk asked if he had a profile called Book Head—or Face something. Steve nearly dropped his change right there and made for the door. Was that man a spy? Did have the means to hack into the data that only S.H.I.E.L.D. possessed? Did he already blow it by speaking? Why would he _ever _set up information about himself for the whole world to see? The last thing this planet needed was another egotist like Stark. But Steve was soon discovering that 'ego' seemed to be the top goal of this new world. And don't even get him started on _'E'-Mail_. Steve was completely puzzled at that notion. Nick Fury tried to best to get him understand the workings of 'dragging and dropping' with an oblong lil' dingy that certainly didn't look like any rodent _he'd _ever see, of setting up an E-Mail so that information would be more secure than physically sending it. But Steve was completely adamant to not partake.

"You have my address, Sir." He monotoned to Fury's exasperated expression as the S.H.I.E.L.D. commander sat, forcing the soldier's hands to tap stingily and slowly over the keys. "I just don't understand the jive about it all. Can't you just post me it?"

Fury fought hard for a compromise.

"Mailing will be safe," Steve swallowed a bit of his pride to trickle down his throat, already knowing that he couldn't go back to living at his apartment alone. It was decided that this reclusiveness that he so desperately wanted wouldn't be good for 'adjusting into his current circumstance'. "I'll be at _Stark's._"

It was only to this arrangement that Fury agreed.

Well. He supposed old fashion values really did come at a high price. But to feel actual _mail _in his hands in a world of virtual disconnection—he was more than he had words to describe.

But he still hated computers. He wondered briefly if he should call out to the Bruce, or if he'd be too absorbed into that screen to hear him. It happened a lot when Steve was asking a question to Miss Romanoff when she was watching television, or when Tony was listening to that loud, screaming, obnoxious garbage he called 'music' from that king-sized radio of his. Steve had a sneaking suspicion that the folks of today were slowly going deaf due to those white little flower-buds they had in their ears as they walked the streets of Manhattan.

So Steve slandered over and pulled up the closest chair next to the Doc, suddenly unsure of how to begin, a cold nervousness running down his spine. It wasn't that he didn't mind asking for help. But it was the _look_ that the others gave him—sometimes pity, sometimes annoyance, most often condescending amusement that really made Steve feel like a total yuck. Soon Steve found he just had too much pride, or maybe too much _bitterness _to ask any Avenger more than twice for assistance. He felt too many times the irk of Clint's stare, or Miss Romanoff's shallow excuses, or Thor's long-winded theatrical explanations that left Steve needing an Old English Dictionary just so he could understand the solution, let alone the problem. And God forbid he ever have to ask Stark again. Steve cringed outwardly at the ghostly, arrogant laughter that seemed to exist everywhere in the Tower regardless if Iron-Man was it in or not. Kinda like that robotic-voice that Tony was always yammering too.

But still, he was happy to at least this time get the Doc.

He'd lost genuine count of how many times he'd causally sat down next to Banner and fangled with the stinkin' thingamabob, muttering haphazard instructions that flickered through his mind like mission agenda from long ago (_from dying soldiers? Fury? He wasn't sure_) that only pulled the blond's mouth into a hidden expression of frustration.

Surprisingly, it only took a minute before the curiously curious dark brown eyes of the Doc settled on the Captain. Steve didn't like to mull it over much, but the Doc seemed to be the only person who had the ironic _patience_ to painstakingly explain over and over the universally familiar devices. Even though, sometimes, Steve feels like the tapping of Bruce's fingers over the keys is going to drive him _up the wall_.

"Captain," Bruce greeted coolly, his glasses sliding a little clumsy down his nose as he strictly turned to look at the solider, his fingers still _tap-tap-tapping _over the keys without pause.

"Doc, really—the formality isn't needed. You can call me Steve, you know," The blond added, forcing a good-guy smile to his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. He dropped their contact with Banner's.

Banner raised his eyebrows, a bit of a twitch causing a small, expression of realization to pass. Steve hadn't known anyone here too terribly long, but he knew for certain that Bruce never smiled much. Usually only when he was tinkering with something sharp, dangerous and humming with electricity, or chumming it discreetly up with Tony in a closed off lab. Gradually, the tapping stopped, and Steve felt he could breathe a little bit easier.

"I'll work on that," the physicist nodded, hands resting on the smooth, silver surface of the sparkling keys. "So…more 'technology troubles', shall we call it?'

Steve allowed a small huff of admittance to slide between his tight smile, placing the cordless telephone in front of the two bodies and staring at it like it was a loaded gun for a second round of Russian roulette.

"It uh, I dunno, it keeps ticking, an' vibrating?" Steve meant for his details to come out straight and savvy, but now he simply sounded like a moron with a question.

"Ah," Bruce breathed out, reaching for the phone.

Steve brought up both muscular arms to set his elbows on the counter, resting his forehead against his hands, nail bitten fingers reaching through blond hair.

"Doc, I swear, I think I'd go completely bonkers without you," Steve allotted. He then slightly paused before he quickly added: "Er, I mean…crazy. Outta my mind. Not…um, 'bonkers'."

Steve flushed at how easily his turn of phrase was made fun of. Today, everyone talked to an exaggerated and blunt degree that he still couldn't bring himself to use. It just felt natural to keep the 40's slang around. It was comforting to a secret degree, even if he was the only one using them.

Bruce managed some type of sound the might've been a laugh, but it was cut out before it reached a real definition. "I'm just glad to help. I can't even imagine what these pass months have been for you."

Steve couldn't bring himself to respond. The quietness lasted between the two men for a restful second. Steve watched half-heartedly as Bruce's sure fingers traveled the sides of the cordless phone and pushed at some side switches and hit a few buttons.

"Did you…make it stop?"

"Yes," Bruce responded, "It won't react like that anymore." Bruce's brow eyes glanced to the soldier's quickly. "I'm going to take a guess and say that was pretty bad for you. I," Bruce's mouth fixed itself carefully. "…heard a noise from your room."

"Scared the hella'outta me, yeah," Steve mumbled, a hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

Bruce could only give a respectful 'hm' as he turned the phone over. "How long have you had this again?"

"Um…I think about a month or so," Steve admitted sheepishly to the doctor.

"And Tony gave this to you, correct?"

"Why? Did he say something?" Steve's eyes flickered to the phone alertly, trying to train his pupils to find where those blasted words came from again.

Banner's fingers swiped over the phone's keys, cleverly deleting the message of Tony Stark's text of:

_Problem, old man? Xoxoxo_

before handing the phone back into the hands of Rogers. Rogers sorely stared at the device for a moment, before setting it down on the counter again and standing.

"I don't want it back, if that's alright with you, Bruce."

Bruce eyed the solider questioningly, moving a hand to pick up the phone once more. He flipped it open to glance at the military hours.

"I've just got this funny feeling that Stark's only using it to pull the wool over my eyes." Steve said, drumming a knuckle across the counter as he moved away. "Besides, I don't really need it, do I?"

"I understand that all of these outrageous methods of phoning and communication are daunting. But, if it helps, I believe I have a better phone suited for you than Tony's games."

Steve stopped for a moment. "It's like I said Doc. I just don't think— "

"But what if we need to contact you? An emergency? It's just nice to be connected in some way."

"I'll find a booth," Steve consented easily with a wave of his fingers.

Bruce cleared his throat quietly, and turned in his chair to finally face Captain America full on. "Steve…I'm not sure how much you've been around outside these days—I can tell you, I don't like it out there either. But…those are…often hard to find."

Steve ducked his head down, studying the floor once more. "Well, let's just face it Doc. Booths don't exist. Trolleys are gone. I'm apparently 'obsolete'. Why keep pussy-footing around it all? Who _am _I gonna call, anyways?" He craned his head up to take in the chrome, mirror ceiling the poured down his reflection straight back into his eyes. He forced himself not to blink.

"All of my friends are dead." Steve voice started out strong, but ended in a whisper at the realization of his words. Oh God. Oh _God._

Bruce lapsed into silence at the lonely, aching bite in the usually optimistic leader's voice, his brown eyes resting on the solider before drawing back to the computer, but yet he couldn't bring his fingers to move. A coil unfurled in his stomach, causing his fingers to tremble... He sighed, pushed down his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. Steve still hadn't finished staring down his reflection before Bruce startled his thoughts by suddenly padding to stand beside him.

"I've killed a lot of my friends," Bruce spoke slowly, his words lying on the air like heavy stones dropping into a misty, still pound. He hands nervously fretted with his roughed up shirt, light purple with a few chemical stains here and there, the brown of his jacket looking more worn than Steve had previously recalled. The doctor swallowed, before he continued, wondering if he'd start to feel himself lose control. But only his heart-rate sped up. "I mean…the Other Guy…I—I suppose."

"No," Steve watched the eyes of his reflection widen, and dropped the gaze, his blue eyes finding Bruce's and locking in tightly, chiding himself internally for acting so selfish. "That's not your fault. Not your fault _at all_. It's the Other Guy. It's not _you_."

"Heh," Bruce shrugged, "But I still feel that guilt just the same. And, sometimes, it's hard. I keep thinking that I could have done _more_; I keep thinking if it had just done_ that_ way. But I'll never know," Steve could only stare, stunned at the idea that the doctor _shared_, practically thought the _same _mantra in his own head that Steve fell asleep repeating every night, and woke up with the words resting on his lips. Bruce gritted his teeth darkly, his face hollow as he fought to articulate himself.

"I don't believe in Destiny but… I guess my point is that sometimes it's hard to face progress. To face what your future is. What you've left behind, whether you had control or not. And I bet for you that holds truer than anyone. I bet, right now, you feel like the most power_less _man on Earth," Bruce let out a dry laugh before he continued:

"Well, _believe me;_ I know what that feels like all the time. But…this is where you are now… This is where I am now, too. It sucks. But, you also aren't _alone_," Bruce paused, his eyes slightly glancing over Steve's somber expression, his dark eyebrows raised, debating his answer carefully, his lips dry. "I know I'm not really the one to be giving you this kind of pep talk—it's not…well, my thing. But…I'll be glad to explain any questions you have. It's actually kind of fun…to do that kind of thing. I guess that's the nerd in me, as Clint would say."

"Believe me," Steve nodded, a little taken back from the sudden speech coming from the quiet doctor. "You're definitely not a square. Clint's just trying to get under your skin,"

Bruce messed with his shirt again, clearly done with expressing his limited feelings before turning back around. Steve's eyes followed him. "I mean, if I knew_ half_ the basic knowledge that you do, why, I'd be able to take on _30_12,"

Bruce cringed into his chair, fingers pulling at a coat sleeve. "Well, if that's the case, why limit yourself now?"

Steve rebuked at the question, stunned, before finally coming to the conclusion he didn't want to face_. Face it. Fake it. Face it. _Now he had to say it. He paced towards the central couch as if his every step were words.

"I…don't even know where to begin. I feel like I'm the bottom of the barrel, and having Tony just throwing all of this razzamataz and muti-million dollar corporations is completely over-whelming. The paparazzis and the cameras. I don't want any of that. Frankly, I've done my time with my silly 'Captain America' talkies, but yet…the public is just _beggin' _for more. Tony has such a natch for being a' glitterati. And…I just feel like_ Tony _is what America needs now…to be the real hero. So he can dash about and smile and deck up…"

Bruce politely nodded his head as he listened to the soldier's lament.

"I don't think I'm _needed _anymore," Steve finally sighed out, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes. He allowed himself to sink onto the black, leather couch, his head leaning against the back of the frame, his eyes shut tightly.

Bruce rolled his eyes although no one could see him do so. "Believe me Captain. The _last_ thing America needs is _Tony Stark_ being _the ultimate goal_ for _moral _standards."

Steve chuckled without feeling as Bruce turned back towards him, refusing to even open his eyes in hope at the concept of him ever being wanted more than the socialite himself. "I guess I'll believe it when I see it. Or if I ever catch up."

"You will," Bruce's voice seemed to take on a new, slightly positive tone. Steve cocked his head to one side, his eyes opened wide at the idea of something else being explained to him alarming enough.

"Relax," Bruce's brown eyes warmed ever so slightly before disappearing down into their dark depths. "I'm going to get you a new phone. You have to keep trying to stay connected."

Bruce's eyes flashed briefly in conviction at the solider, before he abruptly turned back away.

"You're not going to E-Mail it to me, are you?" Steve asked wearily from the couch, not even daring to reach for the object called a_ ree-mote_, instead a newspaper in hand.

Bruce allowed himself a smirk before turning entirely back to his work at the computer, opening a new window and typing in E-Bay into the search engine. "Definitely not. I think this phone you'll enjoy immensely, And I'm going to deliver it myself. Just calls. No texting. No internet. And No _Stark_-attached."

"Really?" A blond brow rose in disbelief. "Not even if he takes the whole loony thing apart and puts in back together with all them wires' an' junk?"

Bruce quickly added a Nokia 3310 square mobile phone to his cart. "I'd like to see him _try._"

* * *

**EN: **Woo! Chapter one down. I just love Captain A's fish out of water concept. Just look at that sexy, sexy 40's slang! And Who COMPLETELY fell in LOVE with Mark Ruffalo as Brunce Banner? I've never felt so emotionally compelled to be in a relationship with him, and possibly be abused. :D I wish they would have played that up a little more, Steve's out of place manners, I mean. They did what they could in the movie- and those shots were clever. But am I going to explore this? Oh yes. But on to other characters next! More chapters to come. Let me know what you think, or if I should continue?


	2. Genuine

**AN: **Well hi there everybody! Thank you SO much for enjoying so far. It seriously means so much to me. c:

**The Avengers Learn To Deal With One Another's Issues:**

Chapter Two: Genuine

Summary:

Natalia "Natasha" Alianovna Romanova (Romanoff) is a hardworking, smart woman that knows how to play men like Stradivarius violin, fine-tuned and highly mastered. But she never could get a good grip on that allusive solider. Soon, a strange connection between them about music is made that she would have never even expected.

* * *

The one thing Natasha admires most about Steve is his genuinity. But that didn't come easy.

After everyone had moved in and gotten settled, at first he was completely avoidant of her. Causal head-on meetings in the hall resulted in a polite head nod, accompanied by a respectful "ma'am". _Oh_, Natasha thought, he was _sweet._ But she hated being treated like she was something to be noticed and not confidently counted on, or obtained. No, that _had _to stop.

And so she did: making complete, irrational head-way into Steve's clock-work morning routine. He was always the first one up just before the thick, smoky clouds of New York broke into dawn—Natasha always groaned and hit her alarm at the very idea of existing this early. It had to be a least 5 am. But the man was _relentless_, never sleeping in, his strong barefoot walkings by her room in obvious determination not to be heard. Natasha, for the first few days, just did a bit of reconnaissance on the curious solider. She stuck to the corners, the walls, twisting herself around bends and listening carefully to every breath, every mumbled word, and every old tune he whistled. Completely collective in her ability, she never worried about being spotted or seen. In fact, she'd never seen someone look so _oblivious _in the morning. He seemed to be in his own little world, riddled with long-forgotten jingles and causally sung crooners from someone's great grandfather's old radio…

Soon, she knew where he would be at pretty much any instant of the early morning just by the sound, or lack thereof, his voice. It was a weird quirk—something that Natasha wasn't even sure Steve noticed about himself—but when he was alone, he'd just start to whistle. Then it'd grow into a vibrating hum—and finally, words. It was always low, and pen drop quiet. Sometimes the Auburn haired spy found that her natural, resting intake of breathing to be too loud and she'd miss it. Though, he tended to usually cling to the same song for about a week.

_"Have you seen the well-to-do? Up 'nd down Park Avenue…"_ He sang on Monday, passing her door.

_"On that famous thoroughfare, with their noses in the air? High hats and arrowed collars…" _Tuesday, reading the paper.

_"White spats, and lots of dollars…spending every dime…for a 'wonderful time…" _Wednesday, folding laundry.

_"Dressed up like a million dollar trouper…" _Thursday_, _whilst jogging along the crowds of Upper Manhattan, as she tagged effortlessly behind.

_"Trying hard to look like Gary Cooper…super duper…" _Friday, shaving with his straight razor.

In the night, Natasha would pull out her laptop, and causally search in the random bits of lyrics she would hear, just for the fun of it. She was curious by nature. And she loved classic music, so…why not? Often, the search produced nothing—whether the song was too obscure, or Steve had misheard the proper lyrics, she wasn't sure. But when she did find it, it made Steve's voice sound all the more right. All the more…_endearing._ Natasha nearly recoiled at the idea of getting close to more men; dishonest, droll, sexualizing _bastards_… it left a bad taste in her mouth. But with Rogers…she couldn't put a finger on it.

Maybe she'd try to get to know him in a different way.

A full week of listening went by whilst Natasha decided to do more than just play her little game of hide and go stalk. She had grown bored—and wanted to test herself. So, one morning, she walked straight out her room, and lay down on the floor next to Steve, completely over-taking his push-ups, crunches, and his reading of the newspaper by inserting herself every step of the way, more persistent than the shadow under his feet. Soon, though often more silent, mutual company, they became so used to each other that Steve often forgot that Natasha was ever a prickly subject for him in the first place. He was never too terribly smooth with women, and just looking into Natasha's strong glances and calculating eyes left his chest feeling tight and cold—the faintest scent of an air-carrier on the deck's breeze that sparked the image of bright red lip stick on another woman's lips, who seemed to disappear just yesterday into his memories, his subconsciousness—that caused him to drop his stare, to pull away…

Natasha never understood why he never spoke directly to her. At least, more than causally. He'd ask how her day was, if she wanted anything to drink before they started stretching. In the heat of battle, _anything goes, _but in the cool, clear movements and rapid breathing between them, not a word was spoken. It just never needed to be. He'd nod his head expectantly, she's turn her smile into a half wishful, half cautious crescent, and off they'd go with their exercises. Maybe the passive silence was something they both appreciated from time to time when no words really needed to be spoken. This continued for a few weeks before Natasha worried she'd never break the ice.

Oh, maybe she shouldn't phrase it _that_ way.

Now his smile is always the very first she's greeted by in the morning. His soft, sleepy blue eyes that seem to resonate with compassion wholly concerned with how _your_ night went, how _your _morning is—so unlike Tony, who not only curses the morning, but only cares if _you_ made the _coffee _yet.

Occasionally, when she didn't have the determined nerve to exert herself to death, she found herself sitting near the edge of the living room…. just listening to him. It wasn't that he had too good of a voice, but it was so completely _different_ than anything she had ever experienced before. It was soft, and slow, and often repeated…but he wasn't that bad, really. She almost laughed at the idea of Captain America, Brave Solider of World War 2 _singing _in the shower.

_"I get a thrill…from being with you dear… though you have fooled me before…" _Steve's voice slowly sailed through the air, under his breath, as he stood in the spacious kitchen, he coughed slightly before continuing…"_Da—dahh-dah…when you knock on my door…"_

Something finally clicked in her groggy, morning mashed brain. That was _it!_

"You like to sing, huh?" Natasha's voice slid through the quiet air that same morning as she was eavesdropping, causing Steve to nearly bang his head on the stove as he was bringing out a frying pan.

"Whoa," He spun around to face her, winded. "Miss—," He slightly winced as he reached up to tentatively touch his hand to his head, "how long have you been there?"

Natasha laughed, moving some of her red hair out of her eyes as she dared a step forward. "You really don't pay attention, do you?"

Steve rearranged his expression into somewhere between shock and laughter. "Maybe not in the morning, no. I mean, can't a villain give a guy a second to make an omelet?" He produced a white egg from his fist and cracked it expertly. "I'm sorry Miss—Do you want one?"

"I'm fine," Natasha narrowly smiled, nearly on the balls of her heels. "You didn't answer _my _question, though."

Steve froze, a blond rose raised. "Excuse me?"

"I asked if you liked to sing. You're almost always humming something around here in the morning."

"—In the morning?" Steve gawked, his blue eyes wide. "You're admitting to what, _following _me?"

Natasha nodded earnestly for a second, her eyes curious to his reaction. If he was anything like Clint, he'd be furious. If he was anything like Bruce, he'd be stammering. And if he was anything like Tony—Well, Natasha didn't even want to think about what his morning routine was, considering that morning to Stark consisted of the earliest part of the afternoon that he happened to wake up too.

"Gosh," The solider blinked again, before flipping the pan and stirring the yoke. "Wow. You're really something else, Miss Romanoff. I had_ no _idea."

"So _do _you?"

Steve thought for a second, his blue eyes soft under the breaking sun-rays, he flickered them uncomfortably towards the fridge, his fingers suddenly knocking themselves together silently, the jolt of them in some silent tune to some unheard swing band. "It's nothing I was brought up to like, I assure you. But it just…kinda came with the job, I suppose. I liked to listen to it sure enough."

Natasha smoothly turned, reaching for a glass in the high cabinets. "I see. And what song were you just singing now?"

"Ah—_that._ God," Steve laughed again, a distant look in his eyes. "That song…I think it's by Bing Crosby. It's called _"Fool Me Some More"._ As you've probably heard, I've forgotten a lot of the words…though, I don't suppose most people here know who he is—" Steve stumbled for a moment, "_was_—now a-days."

"Bing Crosby? Are you _kidding?_ Of course I know who Crosby is! He's one of the most famous singers of the past!" Natasha's eyes lit up, thankful that _ohjesuschristfinallySOMEONE _had an actual taste in music beyond mindless screaming into a microphone.

Steve's smiled seemed waver for a second before catching itself back into shape over the sudden passion in the spy's voice. "Well, that's awful nice to hear. He was definitely going places," Steve stirred again before he added, "At least before all of this rock and roll nonsense,"

Natasha smirked, picturing Tony Stark swaggering around with his _"Black Sabbath" _long sleeve shirt. "Yup. You really missed quite a period of musical controversy. What with Elvis's hips shimming and all—if you had had a daughter by then Steve, she'd be throwing her panties to that guy without even a second thought."

Steve sealed the faint blush that steeled over the bridge of his nose, brushing away the idea of ever having kids…or even kissing…his throat felt strangely tight as he swallowed…Natasha's serious eyes suddenly reminding him of another serious set of eyes…beautiful, smart, and waiting…

"He played the guitar with his _hips?_" Steve questioned, lightening his own tone for Natasha's sake.

She laughed again, her red hair sliding back. It was the most relaxed he had ever seen her. "I'll show you sometime, if you like."

"I would," Steve nodded, a warm smile on his lips. He was just reaching back for the handle when—

"God, I am so sorry," Natasha suddenly admitted, wrapping her arms around herself before settling them defensively across her chest. She leaned again the granite counter, her face taunt. "I'm usually so good at this kind of thing—"She waved her hand around in an expanded gesture as if beckoning Steve to look to an invisible showcase of conversational accomplishments. "But this was just _terrible _of me to start things off by."

It took Steve a second to keep up. Women, really, in any generation, just threw him.

"I—I'm sorry? Wait, _you're _sorry?"

"It hurts you, doesn't it?" Natasha looked at him dead on, the weight of her brilliant green eyes all but swamping over his blue. "To…talk about the—your past."

Steve bit into his grin, keeping it steady, his face straight. "It's fine, really. Don't beat yourself up Miss—"

"Please drop that crap, it's _Natasha_. And yeah, no, that was _stupid_ of me. To bring up music and the past for our very _first _conversation together,"

"Well, if I may be so frank Miss—Natasha. You've completely put me in a spin here. Nearly three weeks go by—I can't think of thing to say to you, and I feel like a complete fool, because here you are, generous enough to keep me company. And you come waltzing in here, scare the livin' day lights outta me, talking about Bing Crosby—and now, I just—I—"

"Your egg is burning," Natasha pointed with a flicker of her emerald eyes.

Steve quickly spun around, tending to the charred remains of his breakfast.

"It's nice. To—to talk to someone, I mean." Steve said, staring down into the pan. "About things I know. I didn't expect it—ever. And to have it come from _you_, the person I've felt so foolish about this whole time. It's even better, you know? Relieving, in a sense."

Natasha felt the shell of her eyes lighten ever so slightly. "Most men find me quite the opposite."

Steve tossed a confused glance behind him to her amused look. "Really? Well, I don't see why. I guess if ya don't have anything to hide, no one should fear you."

Natasha's smile widen ever so carefully. "And you're the picture of innocence then, Mr. America?"

Steve swallowed, and flicked off the stove slowly. "No…" He said, keeping her eye. "But I mean…you've watched me, haven't you? Then, you should know my secrets. I've pretty open, out here." He wanted to motion to himself, to the gravity of his ineptitude, his fish out of water life. "You'll never have to watch your back around me, is all."

Natasha's brows lower considerably. Her narrow, pixie like face reading him over with consideration. She then brought out her hand to shake his. "Well, Captain. I hope you'll expect the same from me."

Used to handshakes, Steve easily slid into her grip, her hand surprisingly cold, and unsurprisingly strong. He had seen how hard she'd trained herself—and, if he had to be honest, it seemed like she worked harder than most of his team back in the training grounds for the War. "It's Steve, if you don't mind, Natasha. Or do you prefer 'Nat'?"

Natasha blew out a bit of air to stir the Auburn curls around her slender frame, as if Steve had just told her a joke. "I don't really prefer any special ni_ck_-name," she clicked her tongue over the c's, the slightest hint of her Russian heritage escaping. "But I guess Nat's fine. Between me and you." She locked intensely with Steve's unpresuming blue eyes. "In _private."_

"I got it Nat—Stark will never get his paws over our secret," Steve winked at her humorously. Natasha really felt it was pretty smooth that a man could pull of a decent wink. Asshole Stark being one. And Rogers wasn't half bad for number two. She'd have to keep the logged so she could tease Clint about it later.

"Would you care for some burnt egg-a-la-mode, Natasha?" Steve chuckled, expanding the pan towards her.

Natasha's green eyes sharpened delicately, her lips into that same smirk. "A cook _and _a singer—wow. Don't tell me you can dance, too?"

Steve's blue crystal eyes seemed to fade a little, but he merely shrugged, dumping the waste into the metal trash can. Natasha suddenly felt herself nibbling at her lip, reading the signs of a tact-less question. Captain America had no secrets?

_Right._

"I really just prefer to enjoy the music, rather than beat it out my body like some sweat monkey."

"What a perfect image of the post great depression area, Mister America," Natasha purred.

Steve's smile returned a little less mournful than before. "Actually, I was referring to the way people 'dance' now," He raised his fingers up into air quotation marks over the word 'dance'.

Natasha nearly yelled out her agreement, "Isn't it just the most degrading idea ever?"

Steve sighed, "To think music used to have such class,"

Natasha stayed somber for a moment before her green eyes opened wide.

"I think…I have something relativity modern that you might actually enjoy…I'll be right back."

**~*~ A few minutes later...~*~**

"_American Pie_?" Steve's blue eyes cooled over into gentle mockery when Natasha came back with a gleaming disc, and told him the name of the song. "Really Natasha—I've heard all the Captain America jokes to last me a life time."

"Nooo," She pursed her lips into the word, pushing a shoulder into the soldier's muscular chest. "I _mean _it—listen to this song. I think you'd really like it. Don Mclean wasn't so bad."

Steve studied the small record for a second. "Well…it'll certainly easier than carrying around than a _reel-to-reel._"

"Come on, come on," Nat said, chiefly taking his arm and matching down towards her own backpack. "I'm going to show you how to use a CD Player…"

In his room, later that night, Steve studied the sparkling, mirror imaged- disc before shutting it softly into the round, smooth record player. He didn't like putting those ragging cords to his ears, but he forced the headphones in anyway, and closed his eyes. The CD crackled, and chirped, before spinning to life...Steve could feel the warmth of the machine started to boil in his hand like a heart-beat…

The song began to play…

**~*~ Early The Next Morning...~*~**

"So, did you like it?" Natasha slinked out earlier than usual the next morning, sliding into a sunbathed deck chair that held her body vertical with rubber, white laces. She still had on her own pajamas of a black tank top and baggy cloth pants.

Steve stepped out into the sunlight with a small smile, shaking his head. In his hands he held the handles to two cups of coffee.

Natasha eyed him coyly with surprise, changing her method of conversation, "Well, well, well Mr. America. I see you've caught on to me _finally._"

Steve sank down into the chair beside her, handing over a cup. "Hey, I'm catching up okay." Steve stretched, eyes wincing at the building sunlight. "Fool me twice Nat," he winked at her.

A short pause followed, easy between them as they admired the twinkling of metal on heat that weaved through the buildings.

"So?" Nat persisted, her voice bright.

"It's…a little fast," Steve kept his expression neutral, straining to keep some secrets away from Natasha's interrogating ways. "But…I guess everything feel fasts, compared to uh, back then."

"I'm so taking that as a yes, Mr. America,"

"Whatever you prefer Nat," Steve replied, trying not to grin like an idiot at the doll. He liked how she was warming up to him—he liked talking about music with her, and celebrities that were printed fresh in his mind like the morning headlines. She was always a little distant, closed off. And, like most women, she had her moments of disappearing. But still…this was certainly nice. And it wasn't like he being the perfect guy either. It still caught him off guard when she suddenly laughed, or the way she placed her weight on one hip, a thin eyebrow raised. His throat would go dry…but not over Natasha…Heavens no…but Steve could swear that just beyond her voice…if she'd talk a little bit slower…a little bit lighter…there_ she'd_ be…  
_  
Peg…I should be talking about these things with _you_…dancing…with _you_…_

Steve looked into the sky. Was it going to rain today? He felt it should.

Natasha leaned back in the chair, letting the morning sunrise over the glossing buildings be the first to caress her skin. Steve copied her without closing his eyes—but slowly, ever so carefully; he drowned out the new world and ventured into one of the only ageless vehicles he had left. God, he missed her. But yet…here he was. Sharing a sunrise with a former post-Soviet Spy.

How times have changed. Steve sorely rubbed his wrist, and breathing deeply out, glancing out of corner of his eye at Natasha, the rise and fall of her chest…the way her hair flickered. He still caused little shards of ice to pin and needle Steve's heart to death. But he had to keep going. People were still trying to show him a good time. Well, why couldn't he be a good sport all the same?

He opened his mouth, and softly sang, just under the rustle in Nat's ears, unsure if she could hear him:

_"Along, a long time ago…I can still remember how that…music used to make me smile…"_

Natasha allowed her mouth to blossom into a full, genuine smile, reaching out into the sun, after what seemed years of disallowance…

* * *

**EN:** So I woke up this morning to 61 MESSAGES about favourites, alerts, and a few WONDERFUL reviews! T-thanks everybody! That means SO much. ;-; I…don't even know what to say! I hope this chapter was okay. I know I'm hitting Steve a lot—but I'm just kinda feeling my way towards the other characters. It'll all come full circle as other chapters sorta lean into one another. Thanks SO much enjoying. :) Any other reviewers out there to give a girl a few nudges of confidence? Or criticism! Or suggestions? Tony next? Who knows! Stay tuned!


	3. Intoxicated

**AN: **FIXED FOR TYPEOS 5/20** **I continued to be humbly over-whelmed by all the loves, guys. I think I failed pretty hard at this attempt. It's tricky subject for me. Plus, I want to try to keep this thing updated everyday—but I'm so tired. ;-; sorry ya'all. But thank you SO very much for stickin' with me.

**WARNING**: _Shit gets real. Contains talk of sexual assault and swear words for Tony's bad potty mouth. And blood._

**The Avenger's Learn To Deal With One Another's Problems:**

Chapter Three: Intoxication

Summary: Tony's intentions are _good._ His _drink_ is good. And he thinks he has a pretty good idea of how to convince Bruce to leave the lab and join in on one of the Legendary Stark parties. Only, to do so when he's drunk is very, very _bad._

* * *

Four floors below a raging party in the spacious rooms of _Stark Tower_, a thick, lab door is opened with the logo of _STARK INDUSTRIES _on it. The light doesn't come on. The snap of a pulled opened window—and suddenly moonlight pours into the room like a white, crisp metaphysical waterfall. Bruce Banner leans a little hesitantly out of the pane, casting a framed look into the midnight air that's following, cool and distant, through the labyrinth of the metal city of lights. The lab around him is eerily quiet, if one forgives the occasional scream and the gentle, pulsing thud of house music from upstairs.

Finally, Bruce feels like he can breathe.

"So this is where you've been hiding," A smooth, descending voice echoed from the stairway, dark black hair peeking outwards, glancing around, as if expecting a whole new theme downstairs. "Though, I gotta say, it was a little redundant_._"

Bruce turned around, the colour slightly drained from his face. There, leaning in the doorway, Tony Stark swaggered, a drink in hand, that was glowing with flash that lit up the room with a fast green light from it's center, a reflection of the ceiling lights upstairs. He was donning the ever so subtle look of dark black vest and pants with alternating silver pinstripes. The social light smiled knowingly at Bruce's expression. Bruce swallowed, fingers locking. Here Tony was. But yet, here Tony wasn't.

A magic trick.

"Sorry Doctor," Tony grinned lazily, his eyes a little too bright. "Clint asked me to come find you. And you know he brought something to my attention: you haven't been upstairs _once _to one of my parties. And I have to say, I'm a little offended."

Bruce grimaced, the shadows hiding the action. "Tony, evening. Clever. Now go enjoy your party."

Tony raised his eyebrows before actually walking fully into the room, his stride a little off. Bruce pulled a breath through his nose. He really didn't prefer talking to Tony when he was like this.

"I'm afraid you're missing my point, Bruce. I'd really like it if you'd come back up with me." He raised an eyebrow. "That's the idea of stomping down three flights of stairs, anyway."

Bruce matched his eyebrow raise with a monotone one of his own, his expression flat. "I heard the elevator."

"But yet I caught you off guard," Tony argued.

"I didn't think you'd actually _walk in here_," Bruce defended exasperatingly. "Why are you even in here, again?"

"To invite you to my party."

"Well, I decline, thanks again."

"Well, I'm taking the R.S.V.P. pretty seriously this time. Why wouldn't I want the most brilliant guy I know at my own house party? You live here!"

"Tony," Bruce set his mouth seriously. "Come on. Think about it. Why _couldn't _I go up there?"

Tony considered this for a minute. "Because you're the best dancer anyone's ever seen, and it'd be too mind-blowing to conceive?" He answered playfully.

"Because I'm _neurotic _as hell, and _drunken people _are neurotic as hell and those hells mixing together? I don't think so." Bruce answered quite non-playfully.

"Drunk people? Not everyone at my party is drunk! There's some mature class _somewhere _in these rooms, I assure you." Tony snapped his fingers. "I'll seat you next to Pepper."

Bruce brows furrowed. "Pepper is a sweet heart. But I'm pretty sure I scare her too."

"You don't scare anyone—"

"Tony, _please." _Bruce closed his eyes, interrupting him. "I said no. Can we just drop this now? I'll—I'll talk you in the morning."

"Alright," Tony said, almost as if he was honestly going to retreat. "Fine. But, you're going to share a drink with me."

Bruce opened his eyes, full glass-gaze on the other scientist. "Tony, you know how some people have fun, drunken, silly party stories?"

Tony's glossily bright eyes shone a little more starrily. "Of course."

"Well, I don't have a single one of those on a sober day." Bruce dead panned.

Tony only laughed, as if Bruce's obvious vibe of discomfort in the room enticed his means forward. "I'm not talking about The Other Guy. Remember? I'm talking to _you._ What could one drink hurt?"

Bruce's face imitated a complete shutdown of Tony's master computer. "Tony—"

"You're not a lightweight, are you?"

"Tony—" Bruce bit into Tony's words, but the inebriated playboy continued:

"Because I have'ta say, that's pretty _fucking _funny—"

"Tony!" Bruce objected, the best of his annoyance getting to him since Tony let himself into the room. "The last time _I _had a drink? I—well, I couldn't even begin to explain how disastrous it was…"

"Really?"

Tony made a show of getting himself comfortable on the circular cushion stool, a leg crossed up, exactly bouncing on one knee, black shoes shinning with polish. He leaned slightly forward, off balance, his brown eyes, glassy, yet somehow continuing to trace the patterns and charts of Bruce's emotional state. Status: Calm. 55% chance of a successful chance of introducing Bruce to socializing and this enigmaous thing called "fun". He motioned to Bruce to take the stool next to and, begrudgingly, he did.

An easy, friendly smile slid to his lips—white teeth flashing dully in the moonlight. He raised a hand and chose a silver breaker stirrer, plopping it into his drink and churning it without a care for the chemicals that could be resting on it. He raised his glass, along with an eyebrow.

"So, how _does _that story end?"

Bruce eyed him carefully, his spine curled as he cleaned his glasses, stalling. "I really don't want to talk about it."

Tony only made a polite agreeing sound in his throat, taking a longer than necessary slip of his martini, which continued to glow faintly in the moving shadows of the lab. "Mm—blacked out, I bet? Don't worry, I've had plenty of those—"

"No," Bruce edged, his eyes suddenly furious. "No, you _don't _know at all. This isn't a fun story to tell to the crowds of people up there, Tony. Not even close."

Tony delayed a change in posture, some small, burning alarm in his brain sounding that said backing up should be the appropriate response right now—but it was so faint. He shook his head: he still had control. Without his consent though, his legs swayed as he gripped the counter for balance, letting out a chuckle instead. "Bruce—"

"Is this a _joke _to you?" Bruce continued his knuckling coiling against the table eyes darkening at Tony's laughter, inching forward, his jaw locked tightly. Tony's grin suddenly slipped like the percentages in his head. Maybe he was at 38% now. Both their eyes were alert and aware, dark brown blackness staring down each other.

Tony was the first to break the short pause, readjusting himself, a hand pulling at the light blue tie around his neck. He opened his mouth to speak but Bruce beat him to it, his voice suddenly horse, yet backed by a lingering, bitter edge.

"You need to leave," The physicist broke all connection, "Please,"

25%.

Tony responded with a curious expression, helping himself to another sip. For courage right? He reached out a hand to make Bruce face him again, but more so to help steady himself on the chair.

"Hey," Tony sought coolly for attention. Bruce all but flinched away, standing now, walking a few paces, before finally turning back around. The brunet raised his arms wide, gesturing to the metal, glass, and lifelessness around him of complete circuits and wires.

"Tony, I don't know if you extroverted guys are one for studying a being's rational environment, but the idea of my being so closed off, _alone, _in this space, is so that I don't have to deal with—" Bruce's eyes narrowed at the drink in Tony's hand. "Everyone."

The look of resentment seemed to scratch through the buzzing high of a party in Tony's skull. The black-haired billionaire glanced at his drink, giving it a shake, before standing up himself. He raised a hand slightly arrogantly, without meaning to be, losing his thought for a second.

"You mean me," Tony concluded smoothly, a second longer than it should have taken, "Like this. Drinking."

Bruce lowered his gaze, fingers twisting at his jacket self-consciously. It had been so easy before to talk to Tony. In long winded sharings of ideological deals in mathematics and formulas and ideas and plans and electrons and computers that Bruce _had missed so much_ when it came to living in India. Or China. Or his old apartment, after he had been run out from his job as a scientist. But then he discovered something slipping about Tony. Something that made little, cold chills roll up Bruce's back, and cause him to suddenly disappear—just like Tony did. Tony Stark—the man who he'd saved the life of—was suddenly_ gone _around other people. The parties, the drinking, the cameras. There was just this…emptiness about the whole parade of it all.

Alcohol. Alcohol was magic. The greatest practical joke of a trick that the human raced decided to play on itself. Bruce nearly snarled at the clubs, the bars. _Watch as you drink your self-control away, your intellect, your memories, your relationships, your thoughts…watch yourself become some simple minded monster. Go on. It's fun. Everyone else is doing it…it's __acceptable__…it's __normal__…  
_  
"Drunk," Bruce admitted his voice soft, eyes nervous and large through the lenses of his frames. "I'm…unstable enough and, this may sound assholeish of me to say but, you're different like this,"

"And that makes you uncomfortable?" Tony asked sarcastically.

_"Take a hint much?" _Bruce snapped, before he reset himself back into neural. He started again.

"I'm always off beat, Tony. It just—it makes me more nervous. So far, you're the only person here that I feel okay with. I don't feel like you're constantly eyeing me to turn into..well." Bruce's words faded as he focused on pushing some hair out of his face, fingers edging through his hair. "But like that…" Bruce raised a finger to point at the ceiling. "Up there."

"So what?" Tony asked, genuinely confused.

Bruce remained silent, his eyes tight.

"Fine, fine, I'll guess," Tony flourished another swallow of his drink, the sting of the liquor feeling a little less fiery. "Do I turn into my _own _green-eyed monster?" Tony suggested studying the now ironic colour of his green, glowing martini.

Bruce made a noise in his throat again that Tony had grown partial to calling Banner's version of a chuckle. "Something like that."

The doctor paused. "I don't feel like I'm talking to Tony Stark—the genius that invented _Stark Enterprise_. The goddamn first man to practically _invent_ being a super hero. I don't know who this guy is, but he's not Tony Stark. He's not the man that made the worse of his situation and decided to help people. Where's _that _guy?"

"He's right here—and, _that_ guy," Tony pointed to himself, "came down here to tell _this_ guy," he poked a finger towards Banner, "not to worry about _The Other Guy_, and join him," He waved his hand around recklessly, catching a beaker in the process, which rolled off the table and nearly shattered to the floor before Bruce caught it—"for some fun."

"Eloquently said," Bruce complimented wearily, setting the beaker back in its stand.

"So, you'll give it a try?" Tony smiled charmingly, like always. Bruce fought to not roll his eyes.

"How many languages can I say 'no' in before you get that it's not going to happen?"

"For me?" Tony wagered, his smile slipping. "You know I wouldn't let anyone hassle you."

"I suppose," Bruce considered, fingers pitching at a brown jacket sleeve. "But it's not so easy. I'd only really want to be around you, and you're swarmed with people. That makes things complicated."

"But best things in life are, Banner. Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Probably stuck somewhere between my will to murder and my moral intend to not." Bruce laid out artfully with self-mocking humor, his eyes calm, and distant. Still Tony persevered.

"Just this night. One time. It sucks being alone down here, am I right?"

Bruce shrugged, fixing his glasses. "It's not so bad. But I know you don't want to be down here."

Tony feinted a hint of shock. "I _live_ down here as much as _you _do, thank you very much Doctor Banner."

"I mean now—" Bruce scowled, eyes to the stairs. "As you…are?"

Tony only laughed, "I'm only on my fifth drink."

"Well, you know what they say Tony. One drink's too many, and a million is never enough." Bruce answered quietly, hiding the scoff of his tone that he wanted so badly to attach on the end.

"Are you trying to _imply _something here?" Tony fixed his dark eyes to Banner's.

Surprise. Tony was still pretty quick, apparently. Bruce back-peddled.

"No," the physicist decided after a minute. "No. Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm not interested. Go have fun."

"No, no, no," Tony chided, walking forward, glass outstretched. "Just one sip. That's all I'm asking. Consider it a compromise, and I'll never bother you about this again."

Bruce shook his head, and Tony merely stretched his pleading grin further, faulting the steel in Bruce's eyes.

"For _me._ Just share this drink with me, for a friend's sake."

Tony pushed the glass into Bruce's hand to where the physicist stared at it apprehensively.

"Will you leave if I do this?"

Tony debated this for a second, the smile somehow continuing to grow on his lips from years of holding it in front of millions of microphones and carefully watching eyes, a tad off center. "Probably."

"Considering that that's not definite, I'm not going to," Bruce pushed the glass away, but Tony held strong.

"Why? Can you just tell me that?"

"What?" Bruce snapped wearily.

"To drink! To have fun! Lighten up!"

"Lighten up?" Bruce hissed. _"Lighten up?"  
_  
"Or tell me why." Tony glared.

"I'm _tired_, Tony," Banner began, wrapping his fingers around the stem and gingerly raising it towards his mouth. "I'm tired of things _breaking_ when I touch them. I'm _tired_ of making every woman I know _hysterical_, and all the men I know ready to kill me. I'm _tired_ of S.H.I.E.L.D. trying to hunt me down. I'm tired of hurting the few friends I have left, and throwing myself lonely, _god-damn_ pity parties. I'm tired of constantly buying now clothes, and, maybe worse of all: I'M TIRED OF WAKING UP IN STRANGE PLACES _NAKED!_"

Bruce finally yelled, his teeth bore open wide and his grip on Tony's glass shattered it effortlessly. The pieces fell to the floor in gentle, flittering tinkles, scratching Tony's shoes.

Slowly, Bruce uncurled his fist, shards of glass deeply embedded; the sting from the alcohol of Tony's smashed drink causing his teeth to clench as it poured into the wound, his hair meshed to his forehead, his head locked, eyes wild and livid, nostrils flared.

Now, Bruce waited for it.

Tony's reaction. All the same. A scream, a shout, the sudden pound of retreating footsteps.

Only behind heavy controlled, nearly hyperventilating breaths, did Tony remain where he was. His eyes surprisingly bright, and his expression, to where fear should have stood, only a slightly shocked, intoxicated gap.

"You know," Tony began, lowering down on his knees, fingers clumsy feeling for the broken bits of glass. "…I've had a few shares of waking up naked in strange places too,"

"Oh _God_," Bruce gasped, calming down, his heart beat not so loud as so that he didn't have to scream his words over the force inside him. The doctor dropped to his knees, instantly grasping up all the broken glass before he insulted Tony any further, "_I am so sorry—_"

"Save it," the billionaire held up a hand to which Bruce winced back from. Tony merely stared at him questionably. "Bruce, come on. It's just a little glass. I break these things _nightly_. D'you think I was going to hit you?"

Bruce could only swallow the rage in his throat, a sudden wetness dripping down his left hand. "Christ," he whispered. He couldn't bring himself to look, but now the knees of his pants were also wet. There was blood. A lot of it. Pooling out onto Tony's brilliantly clean lab floor. "I always do this..."

"Hey," Tony interjected over Bruce's disturbing, mantra like murmurings of guilt. When he still didn't stop, Tony found a nerve to strike, and he snapped his fingers in front of Bruce's face, finally making the brunet look at him. "Bruce. It's no big deal, alright?"

"Yes, it _is_ a big deal!" The quiet voice of the mousy doctor rose extraordinarily loud. "You _have no idea_ what could have happened just now! All those people up stairs! Clint, Thor, Natasha, Steve_—_Jesus Christ, _you!_ I would have _killed _you all—I would have done that, and—"

"Christ Banner, it's just a _broken glass!"_Tony stated back firmly, trying to keep himself from losing his control over his own vocal cords.

"I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT THE _GLASS!_ I MEANT THAT IF I TOOK YOUR _DRINK!" _Bruce bellowed, practically into Tony's face."You may have the privilege to escape all the horrors _you've_ done, or the problems _you've_ faced with that ethanol, but I _can't._ I can't forget! Don't you know what happens when _I_ forget? Don't you _understand_ that? The last time I drank—I nearly _raped _Betty!"

Tony's last attempt at lightening the situation of the night slipped from his face and crumbled to the floor like a wisp from a candle burning at both ends. His dark, brown eyes searching, tense, waiting for more—it never came. Bruce simply pulled away entirely, his shoulders rising and falling in huge gasps, his face buried in his bloodied pants legs. So Stark, in all the intelligent phrases or comfort he could bring himself to say, mixed with the martini, the scotch, some rum, a few shots, at the interaction between falling percentages in his brain and the salty, rusty smell of drying blood, could only murmur:

_"What?"_

Bruce shook his head at Tony's voice, his glasses folded tightly in his good hand. "Please. Don't make me say it again."

Tony only continued to stare, a little more than half crocked, sitting on his knees in a puddle of fresh, thick blood and glass dusting hanging over the silver of his black, pinstriped vest. Tony pulled his eyes away from Banner's anguished form and looked at the floor.

"You're bleeding?" He said dumbfounded, reaching towards the brunet as if in all his drunken ignorance he only just realized the cause and effect idea of sharp objects to soft flesh.

"Don't," Bruce snapped, bringing up his head quickly, his eyes covered in shadows so that Tony couldn't make out if there were still burning with hatred, or cowering with fear, or…"I know how to fix it myself. I'm used to it."

The doctor was on his feet, moving towards the open window, silver showing the stress of ripped brown hair, and huge, desperate eyes. He pushed his fist, covering his chest, rocking a little on the balls of his heels, trying to keep control.

A little off balance himself, Tony pushed himself to his feet, and stumbled forward on his slick under-footing, to which Bruce pushed himself further away, something like a growl rising from his chest.

"Easy," Tony murmured, trying not to slur, putting up both hands slowly in the universal sign of surrender, "Easy. I'm not going to come any closer."

"Now…when you…said what you said…" Tony continued, keeping himself talking. It seemed to help in his usual interactions with Bruce. Conversation meant mental simulation—rather than the silent treatment of "a non-stressful" environment. "Do _you_ try to do that to her? Or The Other Guy?"

Bruce continued to rock, holding his injured hand, forcing himself into a smaller and smaller position. "I…I don't know," He managed out, his voice tight. "That's just it. I don't remember who imposed what. I just woke up, she was gone, and half of the lower New York was on fire. I _blacked out_, as you mentioned."

He swallowed faintly. "It was only a week later that she told me what happened that night. And…since then…well, obviously, I haven't been around her. I started traveling."

"That's…" Tony began, mouth unsure of what to say, where to even begin.

"_I_ don't allow myself to be around her," Bruce's eyes flashed with conviction, as if his words were the collar around the beast within him. "I know. _He _knows that.

"God," Tony remarked, grasping the edge of a table. "How did that even happen?"

Bruce leaned into his hand, before hissing and pulling away, tugging at the glass. "I was…God," He paused, licking at his lips. "I was…sitting in my old apartment here…watching _Doctor Who _of all goddamn things. Everything was fine, until she called."

"Ah," Tony added, as if that explained everything. "Betty Ross? She was your girlfriend then, right?"

"My only girlfriend."

_"Only?"_

"Since college."

"Well look'it you Mister Banner." Tony forced his face grave to keep a smirk from flickering on.

"She…Betty…she said she was attending this late dinner with some celebrity…her dad was an army General, and so she got favors like that…she…really… _admired _him. This Prince Junior guy."

Tony's eyes widened. "I guess I kinda know how Pepper feels now. Sheesh."

"Yeah…and…I don't know. I cracked a bottle, tried not to think about her, a-and him, and the next thing I know…" Bruce peeled the glass from his palm, another gush of blood tumbling down his wrist. He didn't make a single sound of pain. "...retrospectively, it was in a dark, dark place in my life. I had no money, no friends…nothing really, to lose. Except everything that mattered. Her."

"Nearly, you said. Did you find her?"

"God _no!_ Oh God, no!" Bruce outbursted, his brown eyes livid with self-hate. "I tore apart all of New York looking and looking. Thank God I never found her. Thank _God."_

"You really loved her, huh?" Tony asked, completely overwhelmed.

"I _do_ love her. I love her _so much _that I—" Bruce froze again, the words stuck to his mouth.

"Sorry," Tony nodded solemnly, "Do go on?"

Bruce turned to look out the window, into the burning moonlight. "Now look where that's got me. She fucking _hates_ me, Tony. And I don't blame her. I hate me too. Him. _Us._" He spat out the final word like a curse.

"It's gotten you on the finest team S.H.I.E.L.D. can muster up," Tony stated blearily, "And it allowed me the chance to shake the world famous Bruce Banner's hand."

"Famous for being a monster, Tony. That's nothing to be proud about. Nothing to be known the rest of your life for," Bruce loudly whispered, pulling at the shards of glass in his palm.

"And I'm pretty sure I'm famous for being a reckless, sleep around, prick. But, shit man, this isn't…I just…" Tony's thought swirled. "So…_that's _why you hate alcohol?"

Bruce laughed bitterly. A real sound this time, But it struck the midnight air with a hollow, empty baritone.

"No. I don't hate alcohol. I hate people that abuse it. Like hate my _father." _Bruce breathed out heavily through his nose, feeling the flow of control release back to his conscious. Tony froze his head slightly to the side. Bruce swallowed, his voice caught nervously in his throat as he explained. "He w-was an alcoholic, and a horrible, terrible man."

A sharp flicker of pain suddenly trembled through Tony's electromagnetic arc reactor, and nearly instantly, so used to the cognations of his chest, Tony's hand flew to touch the warm, radiating white light that shined through all his clothing. He closed his eyes tightly for a second, before the room started to titled—_God_, he just wanted another drink.

_D'you think I was going to hit you? _His sardonic tagline to Banner echoed to him in his brain. God, why didn't he see it before?

Tony swallowed, the effort draining as his mouth felt dry and sore. His weight felt all the more heavy to hold up on his own. His father? Bruce's _father?_ Christ. _Christ._

_Father._

Tony's stomached twisted, acid rushing up his esophagus—he shuddered to keep command, a thousand floor-cut images of his father rushing in the back of his eyes like a projector to an IMAX screen. Cool, cutting, dark eyes—that used to spark in brilliance and creativity— that saw in a cunning, collective manner, that only spoke of power, money, and sometimes, his mother. A bottle in hand—God, how many years? All his life? When he was first born? Tony didn't even have a single finger to rise in memory of a time when his dad seemed to look at him—really _look_, fully and unprejudicely at his son. Tell him he was _proud_. He'd dress himself up for the crowd, smile for the pictures, but…as the saying goes…_behind closed doors_..

Tony suddenly found it a lot harder to breathe, the taste of alcohol on his breath making him nauseous. He shook his head hard, the room moving in slow circles, but he continued to talk, _Banner, think about Banner._

"You—you don't have to say anything more," Tony kept his face straight, hand still pressed to his reactor.

"I'm sorry again, Tony." Bruce's voice came out quiet and forlorn. Tony couldn't bring himself to look.

"No. _I'm _sorry," he said to the wavering titles beneath his feet, to the blood, and the glass. "I just wanted to, you know, share, I guess. But now…I understand. And I'm sorry."

"You were only trying to help," Bruce asided into a sigh.

Tony opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, suddenly unable to put into words the sudden divide between the two scientists that sped through his veins and his veins alone. The drug that Tony desperately craved. The drug that Bruce never could escape.

"I'm sorry," was all that Tony said again, his voice drained of his charisma.

Bruce sighed again, a scratched hand pulling through untidy hair. "Me too."

Tony's world spun away, and he turned towards the door—the smell of blood was not helping.

"I'm going to go get bandages—you can't take care'a that alone," he slurred slightly, and made for the stairs. He felt his whole body aching when he was finally out of Banner's sight, and braced a hand to glide along the stairwell as he moved towards the party above.

He passed by Clint and Natasha dancing, and Thor chatting with some hippie guy at a set in bar, and nearly missed Pepper's intense glare—too little, too late to avoid her now. But he continued on, _had too_, least suave Stark vomit on the dance floor of his own party.

Pepper strutted after him, her eyes worried yet furious at the same time. _Where had he been? He was supposed to give acceptance speech for _Oz Corp_ ten minutes ago! And now he's—he's—is that blood? Glass? _What?

_And now he's…going into the bedroom?_

She followed him swiftly into their room, the metal door snapping shut.

"Tony?" Pepper panted out, her eyes wide as she watched him disappear into the bathroom.

The sound of a lock.

"Tony?" Pepper tries again, now at the door, a hand sliding over the knob. "Tony? Are you okay? I...I saw the blood."

Inside, Tony stared at himself in the mirror for a second, completely ignoring his girlfriend's worried calls. And Pepper knows this. A loud smack is heard outside his door, and it twists his stomach more—his are starting to knees buckle, the acid is rising and _why can't he stop thinking about his own father?_

He strains his eyes harder, but the image keeps moving, much like the room, but it's shifting his face. His eyes aren't his own anymore—they're darker. Blacker—with blown red veins and bits of yellow. There's a mustache now too—the hair is combed back, smoother, hiding everything inside that those eyes never could. They're jaded, irascible, years of tiresome work and the avoidance of marriage problems and board meetings and CEOs and never looking at his son, bottle in hand, cast a sideways glance at your son's accomplishments—take a swing—Miss out on Christmas?—Take a swing—So, your son graduated high school at 15, no wait, _college at 19 _now? You never could keep track anyway—take a swing.

His vision tinges to black as all the liquid in his system crawls, burns his throat.

"Tony! _Dammit!_ Open this door!_ Jarvis!" _Her small petite fist bounces off harmlessly. Tony snapped his head up to look, causing the walls to shake.

"Yes, madam?" The automatrontic British voice intoned nearly over her, as if it was waiting for an order to end the confusion.

"Over-write section A. 14." Tony called out instantiously, keeping manual locks between himself and his assistant, who'd see_—_who'd see _everything_. Who probably already knows_—__everything._

_"ANTHONY EDWARD STARK!"_The feisty-red head's voice rose up two complete octaves in frustration.

"'Jus' a-sec'ond, 'kay?" He managed out in a gasp that rocked his body. The room won't stop spinning. He thought about opening the door—it wouldn't be the first time he'd allow_—_ Pepper knew how to make this kind of thing stop_—_ But all Tony could think about was the split second of the air between Bruce and himself being shattered with a fist full of glass. Tony stared down into the toilet bowl, his reflection no longer his father, but he felt so repulsed by it. So_—_

_—_There's a sound of shattering glass in his mind.

Tony Stark convulsed over the bowl, and is silently sick by the alcohol over-flooding his system. But even after he's done, cleaned up, and confided Pepper with a hug, and not one of his usual, sly, French-kisses (the ones that Pepper makes adorably ridiculous lil' squeaks too, he's found) he still can't shake the revulsion inside of his chest. No, he can't bring back Tony Stark, playboy, philanthropist, billionaire-who-doesn't-give-a-damn tonight.

That night, Tony crawled into bed beside Pepper stone cold sober, but still pale, shaky, and sweating. Pepper chalked it up to a fever, something normal people would get but didn't deserve, planting soft kisses over his flushed cheeks.

_if only that were the case, Pep_. He thought to himself, rolling away from her lax embrace after he was sure she was asleep.

He deserved every second of feeling this way, he decided. There was no cure. No known medicine. Not even time, or sex, or Pepper's compassionate affection. When he had walked down into the lab to bring Bruce back to the world of the living, he had no idea the amount of repression he was drinking down. And it took world-weary ol' Bruce to pull that out of him a fit of rage of blood, and spit, and glass.

The amount of relation Tony saw behind Bruce's eyes. And his tiny, dark reflection that he saw there.

He didn't sleep that night thinking of how much he looked like his father.

Tony Stark was sickened by _himself._

* * *

**EN: **FIXED FOR TYPEOSS 5/20*** Meeppppp….this one was a stinker. I'm sorry. But Gosh, thank you SO much again. I'd send everyone thank you messages, but I'm so sleepy, so those have to wait till tmorrow. I'm sorry. But thank you SO, SO, SO much! The reviews, the suggestions (which I WILL do in some form or another ;) ), the favourites and alerts. I'm just…so much smiling. (Yes. This is canon: Tony's father was an hidden alcoholic, emotionally distant—Stark's daddy issues are off the charts. And Bruce's father WAS an outward alcoholic, who not only abused his brilliant son, but killed Bruce's mother during the action of it all. So sad. How could I NOT let these two talk about it? Ahh, but it's so badddddddd.)


	4. Stars

**AN:** WOW. Thank you SO much again guysss! Hurr hurr—I personally apologize for the typeos of the previous chapter, and smackin' ya'all in the face with angst and alcohol and crap. *****Throws towels***** My usual editor is too busy to clean up after my stupid dyslexic bum—so I'll work doubly hard for no typeos. But thank you SO much again! (*****Yes, I understand Clint has no real powers and is just in "top physical condition"—but he's so good, even his eye sight improves, I mean, Hawk_eye_, come on! So _letsjustrollwithitgo!_)

Here, has some "luv".

**The Avenger's Learn To Deal With One Another's Issues:**

**WARNING:** _Things get a little saucy. T for teen._

Chapter Four: Stars

Summary:

Clinton "Clint" Barton is the world's greatest marksman. It's said that his incredible eyesight can see so far, and for so wide, he could hit a fly at mile away, and it'd still be living. And of course, rumors do as rumors can, and Clint welcomes all compliments. But the truth is, the only thing he can't seem to see straight on is a particular auburn haired Russian. And he _loves _it that way.

* * *

"What if I blindfolded you?"

Clint's mouth opened, and then shut, eyes scanning and re-scanning his surroundings. Beside him, Natasha sat, pointing at random potted palm trees, ferns, bushes and tropical flowers for Hawkeye to slice through with a single, well-placed shot.

"What?" He asked, forgetting the question as he ripped through a tree, 200 yards away along the ground. Natasha rolled her eyes.

"What if I blindfolded you?" Natasha intoned again. "I think it'd definitely be more of a challenge. I mean, Tony's poor _bushes_ don't stand a chance against your _elite _skills,"

"I'm hitting these things dead center at _night_, you know," Clint responded, a smudge arrogant.

Natasha waved away Clint's accomplishment like smoke from a cigarette. Around them, Tony's private pool court yard opened up into wide, sweeping, freshly mowed grass and breezy long leafed superfluous botany. The huge cylindrical pool gurgled and stirred in cerulean ripples. Though, they weren't anywhere near it. They were two stories above, seated on the cold, stone tiled roof, still slick with raindrops from the late afternoon shower. It was weird; Natasha decided thoughtfully, that Tony managed to build a pool with the calculated trajectory of the perfect spot for actually _seeing_ stars in New York City. She raised her head up to take in the booming, blossoming white theater lights and skyscraping windows that blinked green, red, yellow, orange all over the city, the zoom of the neon traffic below them that never slowed. But still, high, high above, there was the night sky. With _actual _stars. She blinked at them, wondering if they too were a trick of pyrotechnics and wires that made up Tony's empire in the city of metal. He built it to have a direct connection to _Stark Towers _through a bullet train line, for privacy from the endless newsmen and paparazzi.

Please, as if _Tony Stark_ wanted_ privacy _from anything.

"Oh no, we're doing this. And I swear that if you're thinking about doing anything else with that blindfold, I'm going to get up and let you get a long, fading view of _exactly _what you won't be getting." She hitched a hand into her jeans pocket with authority.

"And when have I ever _gotten _you?" Clint inquired, a witty and self-congratulating grin pulling across his mouth.

"When you play fair, and stop acting like an ass," Natasha snipped, producing a soft, long black cloth. She didn't meet his eyes.

"Oh," Clint coughed into a dry scornful laugh, "because _I'm _the one that doesn't play fair."

Natasha dodged around his 'hiding shadows' blow. "Your eye sight is not just perfect, but pretty insane, if I recall right. 20/20 _miles_, give or take? Or is 30 now?"

"Hey, I worked hard to get this way! I didn't cheat." Clint bartered, picking an arrow from his quiver that rested next to his feet. "What can I say? I got trained to be the best of the best of the _best._"

"Congratulations," Natasha said bitterly, glaring as she crossed her arms over her chest. The black of her tank-top shifted back and forth, melting with the passing shadows of a puffy cloud sailing over the owl-eyed moon.

"Fine," Clint nodding, excited about the challenge, ready to show off. "I accept. I memorized this area anyhow."

"Memorized?" Natasha popped a thin eyebrow incredulously.

"Photographic memory. Comes with the eye sight, doll." He clicked his tongue at her.

"Ha," Natasha laughed falsely, "Nice try, Barton. But that's only cute when Steve says it."

"Yeah," Clint snorted, tying the cloth tightly around the back of his cropped hair. "The guy that drinks milk like a freight train on fresh coals and wears blue and white long-pajama pants at night. A-freakin-dorable." Clinton then sputtering into a laugh, "I mean who _does_ that? Wasn't the 40's supposed to be a 'man's man' time? Milk? _Really?_"

"Ugh, stop distracting yourself from _losing _and shoot your damn bow." Natasha smacked his shoulder, annoyed.

"With pleasure," He grinned, gripping up the bow and hosting it into position. Natasha studied the muscles of his arms as he pulled the strings tight. She waved a hand in front of his covered face and he smugly turned up the corners of his mouth.

"Don't worry," he said calmly, before the spy could yell at him for dishonesty. "I can only feel the air your hand is stirring by my face. I can't see anything."

Natasha pulled her hand away, staring off into the inky blackness. Her eyes had adjusted long ago, but now it was getting harder and harder to glimpse the basic outline of the closest tree branch.

"How far _can _you see, exactly?"

"Hmm," Clint hummed in his throat, flicking at the string with strong, nimble fingers. "I don't know—far?"

"Thank you so much for that personal glimpse into being a _master marksmen_,"

Clint laughed again, switching the bow to his other hand to honestly point in Natasha's westerly direction.

"You remember seeing The Empire State Building, way over there, right before the sun went down?"

"No," Natasha pouted darkly, her eyes tight in her desperate search to prove the marksmen wrong.

"Well, it's there. And I suppose I can see a little ways beyond that."

Suddenly, her eyes snapped wide. "That building is ridiculously far away! What—How can—Are you seriously just getting better with time?" Natasha snapped, agitated.

Then, before Clint had time to gloat, Natasha was on her feet.

"There!" Natasha suddenly called, leaping up and pointing at a barely noticeable dampened vine. "That vine, over to your left."

Like a machine, Hawkeye simply cocked his head, and turned his arms less than three inches to the left. The arrow sped nearly silently out of its held position—and struck the plant dead on.

Natasha 'humm'ed herself, manicured fingers tapping at her chin.

"Hit Tony's diving board."

A turn to the right, adjust upward about a foot. Launch.

The board made a flapping sound, breaking onto the quiet night air. Clint swore he heard Natasha give a little growl in her chest. She focused her eyes on the farthest area away from her, only barely catching the glint of moonlight on tiny windows.

"Hit that window to the building with the Coke Bottle sign, farthest to your right."

He did. Effortlessly, not a single pause, or drag. The sound of shattering glass finally caused Natasha to practically stamp her foot. But she didn't, breathing in harshly through her nose.

"I can't believe you just caused public property damage to impress me, Barton,"

"They'll blame it on a pigeon."

"And when they find your _arrow?_"

"They won't," Clint concluded confidently. Natasha rolled her eyes again and sat back down, her jeans slightly wet against the roof.

"Hey, don't feel bad," Clint said, hearing the shifting of clothing close to him, laying on his pride a little too thickly. "I warned you I was good."

Natasha merely glowered at him through her bright green eyes, though he couldn't see it. She hoped he could feel it.

After a moment of anticipation, Clint chuckled, and slowly sat back down as well. The night air whooshed between them, stirring the wild chestnut-shade of the spy's hair. He reached up to touch at the blindfold, but then thought better against it, thinking that Natasha would consider it a sign of surrender.

"Is there _anything _you can't see more clearly than any other human on Earth?" Natasha whispered finally, leaning back on her hands, neck craned to the night sky.

Clint twitched the corner of his mouth, "Stars. I guess. I see them as anyone else would. Well, maybe a _bit _better than that. It's almost like they're touching, but they're not a close as they seem, you know. They're just bright, burning spheres, endlessly expanding, and they're never going to touch. Parallel until they explode upon one another."

Natasha turned to look at Clint as he spoke, his mouth stubborn and resistant in his concentration, arm still ready to peg the nearest target, fingers flexing over the curve of his bow. She slowly brought out a hand, and pulled at the top of the blindfold, bringing it down the archer's face, to where she could see the gleam of his stormy blue eyes.

"And…me?" She breathed, leaning forward.

"You, what?" Clint managed back, caught off guard by the sudden all-consuming abstruse look in her eyes, the first thing he adjusted to, and how deeply he could see into them. People were idiots to just deem them 'green', because only a fool would call them such a blank colour. Natasha's eyes were a foamy verdant; twisting, changing like the sea, like a Cat's Eye crystal on a while silver ring, with flakes of gold, ribbons of emerald that wrapped around themselves, folding like velvet cloth laced around her pupil.

"What do you see when you look at me?"

"I— "Clint swallowed, his arrow lowering from its clenched position. "I…I don't know." He admitted. "I've never felt so perfectly happy not being able to see straight through someone."

Natasha froze for a moment, considering his words. "_I'm _your blind spot?"

"Only because you're too allusive to tag," Clinton added, his voice still full of badinage.

"Oh, _wonderful_," Natasha purred, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "And here I thought you were going to say something _cheesy_ like 'I'd shoot a star out of the sky for you', but hinting about a woman's non-committal issues, _and_ hard mastered skills at the _same time_. That's certainly original. Such a lady killer."

"'Shoot a star out of the sky'," Clint repeated belligerently, drawing forward, his thigh resting against hers. "Please, that'd be way too _easy_."

"Oh?" She mocked, her lips smooth and glittering, catching Clint's eyes in fascination, a whole new level of beautiful. She pulled the cloth down lower, dropping it from his neck.

"Yeah, Natalia," he murmured, leaning in, greedily taking the distance between them, sensing perhaps his only opening. "I could do that with my eyes closed,"

"No blindfold required, then?"

"And no whip, either," Clint chuckled. She could feel his breath on her cheeks, the outline of his jaw highlighted by the moon. She leaned in close, provocatively stopping, a slender hand reaching up to touch the soft warmth of his parted lips. Clint raised an eyebrow.

"_Do it _then, Barton," Natasha smiled, leaning once again to touch her lips to her own hand, blocking the physicality that ran through them on a live, smoldering wire. Clinton, without turning away from her spellbinding eyes, pulled back his bow, an arrow in hand, and pointed it to the night sky.

"Which one?" His eyes glinted, burning, itching for a mark, as if he was taking on the entire universe at once.

Natasha rested her head against his shoulder, her breathing tickling his ear, the nerves in her spine tingling from the warmth of his skin, which was still salty with beads of sweat, damp with the remains of drizzling rain. Maybe she actually missed this. A little.

"The farthest one you see."

"A challenge out of million odds," Clint studied her every movement, not missing a second of her clandestine eyes.

"Of course," She pressed the word as a lingering kiss on his neck.

"Your call?" He breathed across her skin, the storm in his eyes making his gaze unreadable. Natasha curled her fingers, touching the structure and strong muscles of his cheeks and stubble of his jaw, squeezing, nails nearly digging into the lightly tanned skin. Slowly her hand pulled away, dragging down his neck. Hawkeye's fingers clung to the handle of bow tightly, knuckles white.

"_I'm_ not the one overcompensating for things he can't possibly obtain," She mouthed, nibbling faintly at his bottom lip. Instantly, Clint's grip on the arrow fumbled. He breathed in against her, the thrill of her mouth racing through him. The competitive part of his brain forced him to grasp a new arrow, sliding it into place, his arms locked tight, but his nerves jumpy as hell. Dammit, he was so close to letting her not do _that._

His heart slammed against his rib cage, and she lowered her eyelids at him, _daring _him on.

"God, I love it when you _insult _me," He smirked, all of his teeth showing, and he nearly lunged for her, narrowly missing her lips as she turned her head at the final second, and so he settled for trailing hungry kisses over her cheeks, her nose, down her neck. He nipped at her shoulder, and she pounced back in retaliation, biding him to just try and gain some dominance. Expertly intimate arms coiled around his neck as she forced herself onto him, winning a low moan from the assassin as she pulled her knees into his lap, pressing her body against his, nudging his arms off balance. She bared her nails down hard along his back, stinging, surging and passionate, the action pulling his shoulders together, and Clint, no longer caring, let his fingers loose and the arrow shot out of its center string with a rocketing hiss.

"_Oh_," Natasha suddenly gasped as the flickering sound plunged past her ear, and Clint couldn't bring himself to pause to appreciate the sound, his lips trailing along her jawline, to her throat, breathing in her scent—it always was the same alluring, misty perfume, soft, like lavender, but dark and restless, calling all the things that haunted and fluttered through the night like the cry of a black cat. He pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat, wanting to taste the pale white thinness resting there, to feel her heart beating just as fast, just as reckless against his. In the heat of the moment he so desperately wanted to capture, he wanted to stop, to memorize the colour that had to cast the wind in silk around her shadow; purple, black, flares of red—balanced so tastefully, so unnerving hypnotic that he felt, if he stretched his arms a bit further, sped his body a little faster, he might _just _catch her. Just for one moment, he could struggle along her silver tread, the purring, soft curl of her words, her spine…

And would no longer be the prey.

Suddenly, the clenched, forgotten grip of the weight of his bow was ripped from his hands and Natasha was moving away. Her scent, her skin, her warmth—slender and aloof, pulling back into the night, called again by a force that made her so nearly perceptible, impossibly palpable. Clint chased after her voice, spiraling over the roof-tops in his mind, the towers of Budapest, his eyes searching, addicted to her allure, her bite, her glass-glow eyes, a goal so much farther than any arrow he could let fly. But the auburn tease's muscled frame bounced up onto the balls of her heels, and Clint's stomach irked when he heard the windy cascade of his bow plummeting two stories below into the dewy grass. Rough hands were gripping at his shirt, and he felt himself somehow being lifted up and shoved against the roof, the weight of her legs secure around his waist. He looked at her in shock, arms numb with relief from the furious train strain of his bow, and she slowly reached up to grasp an arrow out of his quiver. She eyed it like a toy, before running her tongue seductively up it's shaft, and then flipped it around, jamming it through the thick cloth of his shoulder's sleeve, pinning him there. Clint felt his heart drop thirty stories, only to be caught on a single wire.

She was so _perfect._

She pulled him in for a first, and final, kiss on the mouth, before she let go, soundlessly, fingers trailing coolly over his cheek, fading into the shadows, the scent of lavender following her, sweet and calling on the air. Clint fought to keep it in his memory, an image he never could picture no matter how hard his imagination pushed, it was _never_ good enough. It was never completely _her._

Now all he could see was the endless, bright stars stretching over for miles above where he lay.

"It's a pity," Natasha sighed, her voice low and taunting, as she whipped her fiery hair around into the wind, bringing up a hand to hold it there, out of her eyes, as she gazed up at the full, starry sky, echoing over New York. "I don't see a falling star anywhere,"

She walked to the edge of the platform before jumping, arms thrown out into the wind. She turned bravely; she leaned backwards, ready to masterfully tumble to the court yard and out of sight. She placed two fingers to her lips, blowing a discreet, merciless kiss:

"You _missed,_"

The sound of the wind ruffled through the buildings and trees. Clinton trembled.

She was gone.

* * *

**EN: **Gosh, I'm just…so over-whelmed by the reviews alerts, favourites and LOVE guys. I hope this was a decent Clint/Natasha. I tried. :) You guys make me so very happy. Seriously. Just.

_Thank you._


	5. Apology

**AN:** SO sorry for the wait. I do want this to be an "every day" thing, but that _working _thing happened for three days straight, then senior exams…soon graduation…and some of these fics are 15 pages plus and…I'm sorry!

HERE!

TAKE MY ANGST!

**The Avenger's Learn To Deal With One Another's Issues:**

Chapter Four: Apology

Summary:

Natasha didn't want to talk about _it_, and that was _final_. In fact, no one really did. At least, not to the main source. A certain, particular, glasses wearing physicist. So finally, timid Bruce decides to take things into his own hands. As awkwardly as that might be.

* * *

"I know you've been there this whole time Bruce," The red-haired spy huffed out of her nose angrily, teeth on edge. Natasha sped to a stop, turning her head ever so slightly to catch the flickering, hesitant shadow behind her.

"Ah—have you?" Bruce's voice tripped over itself right out of the gate of his mouth, tone rising up a notch in alarm.

Natasha set her shoulders as she slipped on her heel to face him, taking careful note of all her possible exits, although the sheer broadness of his shoulders, even while they were hunched, took up nearly ¾'s the narrow hallway. She steeled herself, willing her heart to not quicken so irrationally, and forcing calm over her expression. But her inner eye only taunted her, storming and twisting Bruce's shadow into a longer, deeper height that seemed to be reaching out towards her and her _alone_. She repressed a shudder down her spine of the lumbering sounds of a Hell bent beast charging after her, his breath nearly on her neck, the sparks and broken beams and wires hissing and swiping at her face—she scowled, as if annoyed in being stopped, which wasn't too far from the truth.

But it certainly _wasn't _the truth.

"Hi," Bruce coughed into his sleeve, thumbs hooked into the dark purple like he was trying to hide from her. He coughed again, clearing his throat, before transferring it to rub at a wrist, his neck, his jaw—_aurgh_—Natasha _hated_ that! His twitchiness was something so completely compulsive. She growled at the thought of it somehow catching to herself. It was habit that had been damn near beaten out of her back in her training in Russia. Cut like a knife, bred to not even blink at the sound of a bullet, the sudden appearance of a dagger as she tangoed with a target. All of her motions were quick, precise, with conviction and motivation, searing and direct like a hand forced onto the burning end of a metal conductor. Seconds of thinking this, and Bruce scratched at the back of his neck—Oh my God would he just stand _still?_

"…Can I do something for you?" Natasha asked lightly, her eyes tight.

"Ah—" He began. Only to stop. She watched the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed drily. He opened his mouth again. No sound.

Natasha gaze lingered before turning irritably back toward her advance direction. "Right, well, I've got somewhere I have to be, and I'd appreciate if you'd not follow me there too, comrade."

Bruce nodded understandingly, leaning a little against the wall, resisting staring down at his shoes and failing. "Of course. I'm sorry. Um, have a good day."

Natasha continued on, arms down at her side, but fingers slightly over her pocket. She made it a little more than half-way down before a loud dent suddenly chimed off the metal plated hallway wall. Bruce had practically curled a fist into it, meaning to push off of it and dash after Natasha's retreating form. He was in a full blown, huffing, puffing run, less than an arm's length away, but Natasha was ready for him. She'd _always _be ready to him. The shine of a gun was pulled, flipped around and placed just inches from his face, the barrel barely grazing his eye lashes. The pair froze, and Natasha fingered the trigger, her green eyes filled with untangleable amounts of fear and distrust.

"Don't move, if you can help it." She hissed between grinding teeth, every syllable slow and scathing.

"If I can help it?" Bruce managed, his brown eyes wide, but his voice calm, used to holding conversation at gun point. "Did—did I scare you? I was simply—"

Natasha didn't want to hear it, and she shook her head roughly, eyes burning in her skull. She pressed the barrel into the center of his forehead. "Do you have a problem with _me_, Doctor?"

"My problem," Bruce said, lifting a finger to push down on the barrel, only to find it holding tight as a noose. "Okay—" he nodded, lowering his hands. "I don't have a problem with anyone here. I may be out of line for saying this, but I think you're the one with the problem with me."

Natasha's green eyes turned into a solid, impassible emerald. "With _good reason _to be, Banner."

"I didn't say it wasn't justified," Bruce agreed eagerly. "But let me explain. I apologize; I over-reacted right there. It's just…I kept telling myself all day that I _had _to come talk to you—well, heh, to apologize, again, over…over well, y-you know, before. But…what do I always do? I backed off at the first sign of rejection. I chickened out. But no," Bruce swallowed, dark pupils tight on the loaded gun. "Not this time. I'm done."

"Fury is always covering for me," he continued, "a media blackout, a governmental scandal. I _never_ have to apologize. I just can just take and take and take—but the point of the matter is that I nearly _killed_ you, and you didn't even _do_ anything to me! You didn't make the bomb explode that window, and knock us down two stories, and the horrible part is I _kne_w that. And I still…just…lost it. I just _lost_ it. I mean Hell, the last guy that set me off at least _did _something to me."

Natasha couldn't help herself, her investigative tongue turning, peeling herself away from re-living Bruce's half-cut-macabre version of her first experience with '_The Hulk'_.

"I'm listening…What'd he do?"

Bruce smirked shallowly. "Threw me out of a jet-plane. In a straight jacket."

She held the gun firmly. "That's not even fun. What a dick move. S.H.I.E.L.D. team? Newbies?"

"Yeah, they took turns beating me, insulting me, broke my arm…everything but throw me out of the damn plane…and then they went and did that," Bruce grimaced, turning pale for a second, before setting himself back up to speed. "Anyway, I only followed you because—because I feel we need to talk. I mean really talk."

His brown eyes glanced around the empty hall. "Perhaps, somewhere more secluded?"

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "I know, that sounds…bad. But…I just…" Bruce floundered for eloquence.

Natasha slowly lowered her gun, her lips off-setting as she glared. "What? You can't expect me to hold a gun for that long of a speech."

"Sorry," Bruce's eyebrows rose sympathetically. "I can't help that. It's like I said, I've been thinking about this all day."

Natasha looked glancingly at Bruce before twisting her head back in the opposite direction. "Bruce, I'm sorry, but this just isn't really a good time, Thor asked me to—"

Bruce held his ground for a moment as she talked, fingers still tightly together, he leaned forward, and suddenly stepped back, as if finally deciding to retreat, only to stop, curl his shoulders forward, bracing against the loose fabric of his shirt, he stayed in place.

"Natasha, we have to talk _now." _He cut in dominatingly over her words.

Natasha glowered at him, watching his breathing deepen as he calmed.

"Please, I mean." Bruce's voice softened in shock. "Please." He politely extended an arm, offering Natasha to walk ahead of him. "If we could just perhaps talk elsewhere about this—I insist."

Natasha narrowed her eyes, gripping her gun in its holster. "You're walking ahead of me at all times."

"Fair enough," Bruce shrugged, hands filing into his brown trouser pockets as he walked.

The two lead off to one of Tony's many branching rooms—surprisingly past any of the labs that Natasha was sure Bruce was going to turn off into, and strangely, into one of Tony's more well-lit rooms, probably used for more intimate relation meetings, as it over-looked the giant, blue bay of New York, and coasted transparent hues of green and blue over the white and blue tiles and pale wall-paper.

Bruce pulled out a chair for her, that Natasha merely pushed it aside and chose a chair of her own. Bruce then walked around to the other side of the table, sliding down into his own seat. The two stared at each other for a moment, Natasha solid and resigned in her gaze. Bruce sighed slightly, bringing up both elbows to rest his head in his hands.

"Natasha—"

"If I asked you a question, Banner, would you answer it honestly for me?" Natasha suddenly interrupted, catching Bruce off-guard.

"I—I…I suppose?"

"It's just…it's stuck in my head…sometimes…in my nightmares," Natasha leaned both hands on the table, and Bruce appreciated that they weren't anywhere near a loaded weapon. " One night, it's all fast-forward, other nights it's slowed down…but…when I watched you change. I just can't help but wonder, maybe ignorantly…but…perhaps, instead of apologizing. If you'd try to help us understand, things would actually go smoother."

Bruce considered this for a long, measured moment, before sighing out in defeat. "I've thought about that, but…it's hard to explain. I don't necessarily think in words—I mean, I speak—er, he speaks—but it's basic and it's null-void, while…inside I just tend to…_feel_…everything. Thoughts…they aren't rational…nothing stays in my head. I only sometimes get snips of words like _'Hurt'_ in a flash of orange and bright red…or _'No' _in black…it's…all very…convoluted. It's like I'm dreaming."

"Whoa, whoa," Natasha held up her fingers, "Start over. How does it begin? Like…when you first change?"

"It may sound morbid, but every time it happens…it's kinda of like falling asleep. Well, not always. Sometimes it's a kick in the head."

"Is it," Natasha eyes traced carefully over his features, the set of his jaw, the off-tilt of his frames, trying to keep him in focus, and not picture his muscles tearing, his skin ripping, expanding… "…painful?"

Bruce chuckled, easing his back against the chair. "Not at all. It's a blank screen of bitter, white rage. But after-wards? Sometimes the first thing I do is vomit." Natasha cringed away, her small nose wrinkled. "Sorry—too much?"

"Never, I asked." She steeled herself. Bruce gazed at her anxiously, his voice quiet as he continued.

"And on…'better days', I guess you would refer to it as...it's no worse than a _really _bad hangover."

Natasha remained quiet for a moment, studying her own hands, the length and paleness of her fingers without gloves, trying to imagine…

Bruce leaned in carefully, eyes honestly meeting hers naturally, peering over the rim of his glasses as they slid down his nose. In them, Natasha couldn't see her reflection. They weren't Steve's, blue and pure, and they weren't playful like Clint's, or enigmatic like the near black of Tony's...the brown there seemed to be strained, warmed and cooled over with a passing struggle that flecked his iris and cracked his composure, and Natasha wanted nothing but to look away, to not see the _pain,_ the_ anguish_, the_ self-hatred…_

"It's what I imagine dying is like," his voice came out long and drawn. Natasha trained ear could see under it though—it sounded _wishful._

Her eyes filled with the memory of Bruce being cornered, everyone raising their voices, their hands, guns and weapons…and Bruce, admitting right then and there that he put a gun to his mouth and the Other Guy _spit it back out._

Natasha glanced up, and suddenly slammed both of her palms over the table's surface. She couldn't handle it. There was redemption somewhere, past her anger and her resentment.

Everyone deserves a second chance. She knew that well.

"_Жажда смерти является холодный сон сон_," She said thickly, her voice direct and confrontational in Russian.

"What was that?" Bruce entire expression rearranged itself, his brown eyes curious rather than withdrawn. Natasha slowly took notice of how, once Bruce found focus, found knowledge, he almost seemed…okay. Not happy. But…okay.

"It is a phrase used in my country. It's a eulogy for the suicidal. It talks of how a man loses his own soul by taking his own life."

"Ah," Bruce's eyes darkened.

Natasha sighed, sliding back into her seat, her hands folded. "I'm sorry. That was…..inappropriate."

"Why are you apologizing?" Bruce's voice cut In to Natasha's surprise.

"It's just—I get to the quick of things. It's what I do," Natasha quipped, her hands folded over her chest.

"You do run a pretty good interrogation, Miss Romanova,"

"I've held a gun to a man's head so many times," she whispered. "I can't imagine…"

"—Taking your own life?" Bruce's brown eyes glanced at his own hands, resting over the table, bitten nails touching its light surface. "Yeah, well, I'd throw myself off the Empire State building if I thought it'd do more than just damage to this miserable city."

"Stop that!" Natasha's hands curled, leaving heavy red indentions on her palms. Bruce startled, blinking, suddenly caught in the memory not-so-long-ago of their first meeting, when he had tested her with such an outburst. Bruce tugged self-consciously at the bottom edge of his shirt, his eyes set on Natasha, daunting. Natasha lowered her gaze hostilely.

_"What?" _She snapped.

"Does uh, talking about death—does it bother you?"

"No. I've killed many times—"

Bruce pulled his hands off of the table, settling them into his lap, eyes tight. "A number?"

"A number?"

"You have a number."

Natasha toyed with the idea for a minute before answering. "178."

"Wow," Bruce leaned back his head, a dry sound escaping his throat. "At least you were trained to take a life. I've…I've killed hundreds—maybe even a hundred thousand people in raw, brutal attacks…and what do I get told? That it _helps?"_

"Over the cost of millions?" Natasha shot back, an orange eyebrow lifting.

"And when it's not a mission?" Bruce inquired dully. "When it's…just me? There's no cost but victims."

Natasha refused to leave it at that. "You don't think—"

"Innocent lives, Natasha! I've taken myriad innocent lives, just like I nearly took _yours!" _Bruce's voice rose, and the hairs on the back of Natasha's neck rose, pinpoint tingles trailing down her spine.

"So now we've come full circle, Banner. And you shall find: I am not so innocent." Natasha kept her voice calm, neutral.

"But you're," Bruce fought for a word, rising a hand to motion to nearly all of her. "…Good."

"And you're not?"

Bruce stared hard at the table before answering.

"No," he mashed his fingers through his hair, his jaw locked, "No. I don't think I am, deep, deep down."

"Being 'good' isn't so straight, Bruce." Natasha argued. "We can all be like Captain America. It's not black and white."

"Well, I highly doubt the beneficial spectrum to society is _green_, either."

"You didn't deserve what happened to you, Bruce."

Bruce studied her for a moment, before lowering his gaze. "Actually…" He swallowed. "I sort'va did…I was, well, a jerk, when I was younger. Pretty…messed up. The guys at work hated me."

"You?" Natasha eyed him suspiciously.

"Yeah," Bruce forced a fake rendition of a bitter, arrogant smile that seemed empty and forlorn at her disbelieving look. "Can't see it still?"

_"You?"_

"I was cocky, rude, and I thought way too highly of myself. Imagine Tony but…without the heart."

Natasha considered this for a moment. "Stark without that little mechanical synthesizer he calls a heart. Sounds scary. But still undeserving. "

Bruce shrugged, dropping his fake expression, his eyes distant. "Well, what happened to me…it certainly stopped all of that nonsense." He sighed. "The lengths it takes to humble a man."

The two sat quietly, and soon Natasha titled her head, her thoughts advancing towards a new direction.

"What's it like then? Explain it to me."

Bruce gaped at her, confused for the moment. "What?"

"What is it? A split personality? A whole new being? Two souls in one body? The Hulk, what is it like?"

Bruce looked on at her soberly, but cringed over the mentioning of The Other Guy.

"I've read every book I could get my hands on…but it's…" He trailed off, slowly shaking his head.

Natasha tried again, pulling her chair in closer. "I can see you, Bruce." She tentatively moved her hand to touch Bruce's sleeve over the word 'you', before quickly moving it away, "In his eyes."

Bruce gave a bemused look that washed over in spite. "I'd say 'thank you', but…"

"I know you think you disappear—but what about when you saved Tony?"

Bruce's eyes widened over the question, as if he had genuinely forgotten about his heroic action for the philanthropist. "I—I…" He shook his head hard, his eyes focusing hard on a single spot on the table before trying again. "…The Hulk," God how he _hated_ that word, "is a force of my emotions. My anger, my hate, and my fear. I can only think that…Tony was saved because, at first, he was the only one that…welcomed me like a normal person. Sure, he tried to rile me and made it into a joke, but…that's normal, right? Friends…that can do that kind of thing, and nobody gets hurt. That's healthy. And he talked to me. The guy usually never shuts up, but he talked, really talked, to _me._"

Bruce closed his eyes slowly, as if listening to Tony's voice in his head. Natasha only stared on, fascinated, and waited politely.

Bruce opened them again. "It's been so long since I've had anyone that knew of my…condition…just talk to me, face to face, and not behind a glass wall." Bruce shifted uncomfortably, the mass of his shoulders tightening. "The Arch Reactor in his chest, how reckless he is. I'm scared he'll accidentally kill himself. I thought that to myself once, and…it stayed with me, I guess."

Natasha's expression, so tight and acute, softened. "It's okay to care about other people, Bruce. The—Other Guy didn't take that from you."

"My feelings," Bruce's lowered himself, "My grief when I kill. He can't take that away from me, no."

"I meant _us_," Natasha allowed a small smile. "We're a tough crowd."

Bruce shook his head, and pulled the chair out haphazardly from under him, stumbling over his feet. "Natasha, I'm sorry—I am so, so _sorry!"_

"Bruce," Natasha stood smoothly herself, reaching out a hand to stop him from leaving. "I forgave you the second you saved Stark's life."

Bruce nodded, but Natasha knew that kind of body-language was a lie. He wasn't accepting it. He fidgeted with his fingers, and Natasha leaned in.

"Bruce, I only acted the way I did towards you because I couldn't help but feel threatened. I know you're sorry. And I'm sorry that I'm jumpy about it still. But…we're a team…and you just shared some Confidential S.H.I.E.L.D. secrets with me just now, and that means a lot. It's time we tried to push forward from here."

Bruce simply shook his head again, and said quietly: "Not really. I mean, I'd—I'd like to move forward, yes. But my secrets. They're not so secret. I mean, I didn't talk of the data crunching and numbers and red blood cells and molecules. I just shared some personal things that I usually don't."

Natasha dropped her hand. "Why not?"

Bruce grimaced his mouth into something of a painful smile. "Well, the second the Other Guy shows up, people tend to not like me, not trust me, and not want anything to do with me. I mean, no one ever asks Frankenstein's monster how he felt. But, on the same hand, I'm the creator. …They never reconcile, and they don't get friends in the end, Natasha."

"Well, the rest of the team wants something to do with you at the very least, myself included," Natasha joked lightly.

Bruce's lips moved into a softer, vacillating expression. Natasha extended her hand for a handshake.

"It's a start?" He asked carefully, grasping her hand and giving it a weak squeeze, quickly letting go.

Natasha laughed, grasping his hand back and forcing him to give a proper, strong shake.

"It's a start, Banner."

* * *

**AN:**I really am sorry about the lack of updates. Today should be a major update day for all! Hope I did this well guys. C: I've always been fascinated by Bruce's transformation, and what he feels or doesn't feel. I'm so going to explore this more. Next up: Tony and Steve.


	6. Surrender

**AN: **Well it's about damn time, Kay.

**The Avengers Learn To Deal With One Another's Issues:**

**Chapter Six:** Surrender

**Summary: **It's no secret that Tony and Steve do not have very much in common. Beyond being men, beyond being young, and beyond being heroes, conversation between them consists of the most basic of interactions: Mission planning, and as Steve would coin it: "mudslinging." What they don't know is that there is one thing more they share in common. And that one thing happens to be the hardest to share for men of war.

**tldr; version:** Steve gets a nightmare, and Tony gets a surprise.

* * *

Steve awakens at the start of a scream; large hands entangled in the silver glint of barbwire, his body moist from his own blood, face first in the suffocating dirt that's filling his mouth, filling his nose. His temples throb in his head, aching from the shallow breathing that has possibly gone on for hours since he fell. He thrashes wildly, legs lost in the hectic motion, and teeth chattering. There's a sharp, frightful chill in his throat, raw and thirsty—so thirsty. He wrenches, unable to stop his shivering, feeling the freezing cold along his sides that furiously turns burning hot at his neck, pulsing with irrational terror that's splashing through his veins like a cry for help, long gone, long lost in a battle that's only in his head. With all his strength, he rips the edges of his bed frame apart, unable to feel the splinter of the wood as it enters into his rough palms. All he understands is that he can't get up—_get upgetupgetupgetup—men are dying, boys are dying—am I dying?—_is all he can think, twisting around, desperate to see his legs. Oh, he'd seen the hospital tents. The countless flesh-less bodies rotting in the sun. And they're the lucky ones. It's the amputees that suffer—there isn't enough alcohol, bandages, or doctors to go around. If he's hit. If he's down…he'll die. He knows he'll die. But it won't be quickly.

His blond brows furrow together so tightly that he's afraid his head might explode. _Please Dear Lord, don't let it be this way. Not this way. Please…_

He feels slowly down his own body, shaking fingers trailing under the drawstring of his pants to his hip bone, and finally to his thigh. His left leg is there. Next to check his right. There. He's okay. _Oh God_, somehow, somehow he's okay. That's reason enough for Steve. He shutters in a breath, and forces himself to stand—only for some reason, the dirt is too soft—he's falling—he's falling and his eyes won't open and why should he even try any longer? It's blackness. It's _only _blackness…

Steve hits the carpet with a shock that leaves him breathless. His firsts are coiled like hard rocks formed into the soft down of his sheet. His legs are pulled to his chest. One arm is cradled around his head, fingers clawing at his own short hair. He blinks, his eyes open, his jaw locked. He's in his room, he tells his shaking body. He's alone, in his room, in Stark Tower. Out of the corner of his blurred vision, the bright red eyes of a digital clock states a cold hard fact to him:

_September 30, 2012. 2:27am._

_It's 2012. And I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive._

A flicker of plain licks at the side of his head that's so sharp he can't stop it from hurting him, from digging into him, deep, deep inside.  
___  
And no one else is._  


He knows better than to try to stand now. He'd lose it. He'd lose it _bad._

So, for a while, there's nothing but that same, empty mantra that makes his lips move silently, as if he's too nervous to make a sound. He's waiting for it. A sound of a gun, the anticipation of a bomb. The silence before the rain of gas that floats along the fields, hell bent on covering up all of Steve's dreamt reality.

His cheek is pressed hard into the soft flooring, and he rocks a little, trying to keep the concrete idea that he has all of his body parts. His throat ripped raw from screams he doesn't remember. He's so thirsty that when he finally feels the slickness of water dripping down to touch his lips, his tongue instantly reaches out.

He doesn't mind the salty taste.

* * *

Tony doesn't bother to turn on a light when he meanders into the kitchen around 3 am that same morning. He's used to being alone; specifically alone at this time of night, and thoroughly enjoys it. Tony had always been more active at night—and with the way he never saw his father's shadow in the morning sun—he figured that it was probably a stroke of genius that ran in the family bloodline. Everything was quieter a night, more focused, and just _burning _with potential. Everyone and everything was gone. And it was always just him and his thoughts.

That didn't mean that he didn't need a means of keeping his thoughts aware. That means was coffee. Coffee in pretty much any time of the day Tony felt was especially useful for a meaningful existence. It was always the perfect finish for a long night of working down in his workshop. Tonight was certainly looking promising—he'd finally developed a way to calculate the final dimensions to a new type of blaster. His fingers open the cabinet above him easily, fingers reaching in with a filmier stretch. He gripped the handle of the mug and brought it down while twisting the handle of smooth sink faucet for water. He was just reaching into the shadows that held the latest model of a Persian coffee maker when he noticed something peculiar.

The coffee make was already on, humming just under the rush of the following purified water before him, and stared up at him with the gentle glow of a 'full' indicator button with a positive green colour. Tony stopped, eyes narrowing, before he quickly looked around. The faint glow of his Arc Reactor under his tread-bare t-shirt seemed to be also on the off ends tonight, showing him nothing beyond the reach of his arm. Tony quickly cleared his throat, and stared straight at the table before him, hoping that he'd just absentmindly forgotten that, yes, he certainly did make coffee two hours earlier. And for some reason it was still hot and still filled to the brim. Like how he often forgot that it was impossible to pick up Thor's hammer, or that he'd somehow lost that email from Pepper about that CEO meeting tomorrow.

"Uh," He began quietly to no one. "Hello?"

There was a short start from the darkness before the billionaire, the shifting of a motion just out of Tony's peripheral vision, and the scraping of the bottom of a mug against a surface.

"Whoa," Tony called, his dark eyes wide. "Did—did I scare you?" Tony squinted, and in the faint rustle of the retreating shadow, he noticed a glint of blonde hair.

Tony blinked. What? No way. Why in the world would a man that gets up with the God-awful sun every damn day like it was a religious practice ever be up this late?

_"Steve?" _His entire tone gave away his bewilderment.

The shadow froze, clearly alarmed and a bit put off from being caught in the act. There was a shifting sound, and finally, a response.

"Hey—Tony, I was just leaving." Steve's voice drilled into the air like he about to be interrogated. Tony could only shake his head in genuine disbelief, a small smile sketching onto his lips.

"Cap, what the _hell?_ Didn't you go to bed like," Tony did quick mental math in his head. "_Seven _hours ago?"

"Yeah." Was the short answer that Steve gave, already halfway in retreat into the large living room. Tony quickly followed suit.

"'Yeah'? So,what, you decided to randomly wake up and make coffee for me? Don't tell me you're warming up to me just yet, Rogers. Because, honestly, I have no idea what to do for you in return."

Tony smirked into his jest, eyes already bright at just the smell of the caffeinated drink wavering from the crook of the kitchen. He was curious now. It wasn't often he got company this late. And heck, even at that, it wasn't often that something surprised him out of the usual routine in his twisted life. He certainly couldn't say that coffee with Steve Rogers at 3 in the morning would be an event he'd bet money on happening. He leaned against the door frame a little, only catching the briefest of Steve's movements as he padded back to the hall.

"That—that was a joke, Rogers," Tony continued, unable to stop himself, finding strangely that he didn't want to let this strange quirk go. "What were you doing in there?"

"Just wanted some coffee," Steve's voice came out in a tight mumble, which caught Tony off-guard all the more. Steve made a pretty good point about speaking clearly and with confidence. It wasn't too terribly often that Tony would walk by a sitting room and there would be Bruce and ol' Star Spangled Annoying himself, talking quietly about how Bruce should have more confidence in his tone, about who is he, breathing from the diaphragm in some ridiculous speech lesson.

_Ooh-kay. _Tony breathed out, internally, preparing himself. Something definitely wasn't right here.

"Well, hey, come on. Don't just rush off. You obviously made coffee for a reason. But something tells me it wasn't just to enjoy my pleasurable company."

That made Steve stop, even if it was slowly. He paused by the high-rise of the crystal glass of a window to where Tony could use the moonlight to see what Steve was up too. But it wasn't anything too condemning. He was just in his usual pajama wear. His hair was a bit messed up from sleep, and one of his hands was wrapped tightly around the base of a coffee mug. The free hand was using its fingers to scrape silently at the edge of the cup, fingernails chewed down to the cuticle. Those details were a bit odd for the usually controlled and presentable 'leader'. But it was when Tony finally looked into Steve's eyes that he noticed what was truly wrong.

Steve's eyes, usually bright blue and obnoxiously good natured, were clear-looking. Almost faded. The translucency of his blond brows were tucked in tightly, bringing about worry lines across the Captain's nose and around the edges of his eyes, darkening his whole look. They looked troublingly tired. They looked distantly angry. And, perhaps most shocking of all to Tony: they looked…well, shit, Tony really, really didn't want to admit it, but… they looked _scared._

When Steve didn't respond, Tony thought it best to try a different approach.

"I'm sorry if I freaked you out back there. I honestly had no idea you were even sitting there. You should've said something."

Steve simply shrugged, his eyes just gazing out the window. The blue resting there seemed to reflect the zooming of the reds and golds of the traffic hundreds of yards below with a seething listlessness. "I don't know why I jumped. Just happened. I, uh, saw you comin' from a good distance away." Steve took his free fingers away from the cup and used it to awkwardly point at the center of his own chest, making a clumsy circle there, as if he didn't have the words to tell Tony that he glowed in the dark like an unnatural lighthouse of sarcasm and beguile.

Even from a good dark distance away Tony tracked Steve's arm movement well.

"Huh, well I guess ever winning at laser tag again is out of the question?" Tony's voice lifted jokingly, as if he honestly never really considered that it wasn't normal for a man to be glowing out of his chest, and he didn't sometimes feel like a machinated freak that wore way-too-thick-of-shirts year round.

A hand was suddenly brought close to his chest. It wasn't that he was ashamed of what made him function. Tony Stark had never been ashamed of much of anything in his young, aggressively progressive life. If he had it, you bet your sweet ass he'd flaunt it. But still. It was only sometimes, just sometimes, that he'd walk by a shiny piece of equipment, and catch his reflection. The over-exaggerated tilt of the circle, expanding wide, nearly taking over his entire body. He placed the palm of his hand over the circle during those moments, watching the light disappear into his flesh, and suddenly he'd appear as he was those few years ago. The word 'normal' had flashed through some newspaper headlines as if that was all that Tony was, even before…the kidnapping, but he'd never feel _that _again. He could still feel the heat, the dry hum of the Arc Reactor slowly heating up his hand, and it always brought him back to reality.

The Arc Reactor was everything that made Tony's reality. Or else he'd be dead. And frankly, Tony knew first hand that there were worse off things to be.

Stark swallowed, entertained by his thoughts, but feeling like there was a distinct lack of integrity to the air. Usually such a direct reference got some kind of reaction out of Rogers, where it'd be interest, or a scowl, or a quizzical look lingering off of his square jaw. But yet…nothing. Tony's eyebrow raised in the dark, his eyes zeroing in on Steve, unable to stop their analyzing. Obviously, there was a problem here. But he wasn't too good with people problems. Or people, really. So he changed his idea of Steve and made him mechanical for a moment.

First, he broke down his image of Steve to that of the image of a blown wire to this year's newest, fastest car. Rogers seemed to be built in mint condition. _Perfect._ Tony's fingers tapped self-consciously as the silence grew. He hated looking at Steve and seeing that stupid, superfluous word, but it was true. But that word didn't just classify that Cap was younger, stronger, and faster than him. It was that he seemed to embody everything Tony never could be, never_ wanted_ to be. And everything that maybe Howard Stark did. And that's why he spent the rest of his life looking for….for _Rogers._ Tony only allowed such a word that to describe his brilliant mechanics, and Steve Fuckin' Rogers. Tony huffed, leaning back into the kitchen and flicked on a black light switch. The brightly white blink of the light bulb popping on gave Tony an electrical transition to a more understandable relation to the man before him. His thoughts switched from cars to a lost radio transmission that was only broadcasting via I'm Trying _Really _Freaking Hard to Be Nice FM, with your belligerent host: T. Stark.

Greatly delayed, Steve blinked, and answered halfheartedly: "I guess that's your version of playing with toy guns when you were a kid." He paused. "When I was a dumb kid, I liked hunting my friends too."

Tony paled for a moment while watching the way Steve spoke so dully. "Well, you know, it was fun at the time, anyway. You could never tell who won, though. The pads fell off easily, and the laser guns never shot correctly. So it was usually after a match that me and my buddies were just glad to be out of the dark. _Then _we'd duke it over who lost." Tony chuckled smartly. "I'm sure that happened to you before. Some things never change."

Steve's fingers stilled for a moment over the 3.2 second ration of tapping the mug to Tony's calculating stare. He didn't respond. His eyes simply seemed to get tighter, and, strangely, Tony thought he saw the tiniest bead of sweat along a pale cheek.

Tony hesitated for a moment, a hand ruffing up his own dark hair, suddenly at a loss for the perfect phrase to say. His tongue was thrown off by the sight of a nervous looking Captain America. _Oh great, is he sick or something?_ Tony's thoughts snapped. _Fever? _"But, uhm, in all seriousness. Is, ah, everything alright, Steve?"

Steve didn't seem to hear him. His blue eyes glanced at the weight in his hand as if he was just realizing he had the mug in a death-clutch. "Do you always make coffee this late at night?"

Cap's question seemed to come off a little short, but Tony rolled with it anyway.

"Yeah." Tony sniffed, rubbing at his jaw. "Pretty much, I do. I'm up a lot. All this exciting city life, Rogers. I can't sleep, don't know how you do it. So I use it to work on stuff. You know, 'me' time and all that reflective nonsense."

"Oh," Steve responded shallowly, as if he didn't quite get that he was intruding upon very important Tony time. "Sorry."

"Er," Tony grimaced at the one word response. "No, I didn't say that to make it seem like you were intruding or anything. Just—just you asked."

A pause.

"You want sugar or anything with that?" Tony asked, feeling his bottom teeth click against his top. Why the hell was this stressing him out so much?

This seemed to spark something in the Captain, as something flashed quickly through his clear eyes, something familiar and faintly amused. "Do…do people still do that kinda thing?"

Tony couldn't help but give a bit of a bark into his laugh. "People put all things of crap into their drinks now a days. It's kind've a fad to be obsessed with coffee. It's stupid if you ask me, but, never the less, yeah, it's still a popular thing. Pretty sure people are more addicted to it now than they are cigarettes. Speaking of which, it must've been damn nice back then, Steve. Smoking anywhere you wanted." Tony raised a curious dark brow. "Did you smoke?"

"Nah. I had asthma. Couldn't breathe anyhow." Speaking of causal culture seemed to be helping, if just a little, from what Tony could sense.

"Rough stuff," Tony responded quietly, the image of a Captain America having a asthma attack seeming too unrealistically funny to be true.

Steve twisted the cup around in his hands, his shoulders still tucked tightly together as if it was sheer willpower of his back that was keeping him from keeling over. "Not really. What was tough was when Buck—" Steve seemed to stumbled into the word,"—er, my pal, caught me stealing a pack from my old man. Cuffed me super hard across the back of my neck." As he spoke, he gingerly reached up and rubbed at the spoken part. "Think I might even still have that bruise."

Tony's mouth parted cleverly at that image too. "Your friend didn't care for your stupid antics much?"

"He was…overprotective." Steve's voice seemed to drop off again. It didn't take much for Tony to sense a change in subject was needed.

"I hear ya," Tony added, sliding back into the kitchen light and calling out. "Hey, join me in here for a second, will you? I don't get company this late. Sit down or something. You just standing there is making me nervous."

Reluctantly, Steve's eyes flashed towards the darkness of the hallway, but he found himself soon sitting at a chair around the round table in Tony's kitchen. Tony busied himself with making a decent cup of coffee. Something strong. Maybe brandy. He'd surprise himself.

"Kinda lonesome around here at night," Steve remarked quietly, staring straight down into his coffee.

Tony turned his head slightly to look at the blond, trying to keep his expression understanding. Tony didn't think it was lonely at all. But then again, he liked being around things that were cold, explosive, or intimate. "Maybe. I don't mind it."

Tony continued scooping more and more teaspoons of cream into his coffee when he noticed the briefest movement from the Captain out of the corner of his eye. Steve's fingers were trembling, but his entire framed seemed to be shaking ever so slightly. Tony's eyes narrowed. He turned around slowly, a hand on his own drink. Steve continued to stare into the space of his coffee.

"Cold?" Tony's dark eyes didn't back down, demanding Steve to look at him.

Instantly Steve blanched. His eyes shot wide and his face flushed for a moment as he snapped his neck up to stare at the eccentric billionaire. "What?"

Tony's lips slid back into a neutral line as he took a sip from his mug, thankful for the sweet, burning warmed that kneaded through his veins. Inside he couldn't help but allow himself a glimmer of self-gratification over causing Captain America to feel self-conscious. "Your drink?"

This seemed to take Steve a second of consideration before he slowly trained his eyes back to his cool, watery coffee before him. _Jeez guy._ Tony wondered mockingly. _You really aren't here tonight, are you?  
_  
"Ah, yeah, sorry, I didn't realize it was." Steve poked at the mug, and slid it slowly off to the side. Tony merely reached over and replaced it with his own.

"There, try that."

Steve only stared at him strangely, a smudge disbelieving. "Isn't it yours?"

Tony rolled his eyes arrogantly at Steve's modesty. The guy was a trip. "What? You think I spit oil or something, old man? Just try it for God's sake."

"Okay, alright," Steve gripped back, trying not to glare, and reached a hand across the drink to hoist it up. He took a small sip. It actually tasted pretty good. Warm, murky and a little over sweetened. But it was better than the bitterness that his previous coffee was. Now he wanted to shudder at the shell that was the black puddle he was forcing into his mouth—couldn't he tell how awful it was? Maybe coffee really did help wake him up.

"Well?"

"Thanks," Steve murmured as he thought, huddling down closer to the steam curling from the hot liquid. He wanted to down the whole thing right there, let it burn his tongue, scald his throat, boil his stomach; vaporize his blood just so he didn't feel so _cold. _Instead he squared his shoulders and wrapped both hands around the cup like it was a mini bonfire.

"That isn't the answer I was looking for," Tony pressed.

"It's good—it's fine. It's—it's great, okay?" Steve finally managed a sound that might've been a start of a laugh. "Happy?"

Tony eyed him wearily, his smile still steeled. "As I'll ever be with you, Cap."

The dark curls turned around again as Tony turned to make himself a new cup. When he turned back again, something had changed.

Tony's eyes swooped in the odd degree that Steve was sitting at, low, crouched. And there's also a small noise—the _tink, tink, tink, tink, tink, _of the bottom of a coffee cup continuously tapping a hard surface. Tony's dark eyes instantly found the source, his eyebrows rising. The sound was obvious that it from the rattle of Steve's hand. But Steve's thoughts were obviously elsewhere, and if the Captain was aware of the sound he was making, he certainly wasn't willing to show it.

Tony slid the back of a chair out, leaning into it, and was suddenly very aware of the ache in his haunches. He had no idea he'd been standing for so God damn long. When did he start working? Nine pm? _Damn. That's gonna be fun tomorrow, _He thought dryly.

"Tired?" Steve asked, his voice somber like he was echoing his own question.

Tony blinked quickly, leaning forward. "No, not really. I don't get tired till about five or so."

"Yikes," Steve continued, "Just in the nick a'time to avoid the sun."

"Oh, of course!" Tony grinned, "That thing is awful. Don't know how you face it every morning."

Steve shrugged.

"I uh, guess you won't be seeing it today, though?" Tony asked carefully, unsure of how to approach the subject of their peculiar chat. "Any particular reason for that?"

Steve seemed to pale a little more at Tony's voice, and he simply sagged in his chair, looking all the more worn and defeated. He put his elbows hard on the table and leaned against his hands, pressing his fingers into his still aching temples. "Bad dream," he finally allowed, his voice a tad unstable.

Tony shrank back a little in his seat, wanted to get up and leave. Woo boy, did he hate dealing with stuff like this. Where was Natasha when you needed her? Or Hell, Banner? He'd seriously even take Bruce right now. Bruce could talk to people. Bruce would know what to say. Maybe. Or at least better than what Tony figured he would say. Tony could talk, and talk, and talk himself out of a situation. But to talk somebody _else _out of one? He took a deep breath.

Steve continued to remain quiet, and, slowly, it dawned on Tony that maybe, just maybe, Steve actually didn't want to talk about it. Whatever it was. Whatever it was that made the Man out of Time, a friggin' World War hero look so terrified that he's sitting in his cloth pajamas, rattling his coffee cup. Tony sighed.

"Yeah. I get those, sometimes."

A strangled noise seemed to come from Steve's throat, as if he was planning on shutting down his voice box, and now it was being thrust back to work. "Really? Is that why you don't?"

"Sleep?" Tony's brown eyes stared at the clock behind them on the wall that now read 3:45am.

Steve nodded.

Tony cleared his throat, rubbing at a wrist. "Ah…yeah, a little."

Steve seemed to stare at Tony for a long time. "Right," he decided. The two sped into silence.

Tony's eyes flickered anywhere else but at the man before him, feeling all the more uncomfortable. _Bad dream?_ He thought, a hand sliding to the Arc Reactor in his chest, rubbing the fingers around the cool metal of the outside ring. He remembered the last time he tried to go to bed early, climbing into bed with Pepper and curling himself around her warm body. At first, it was easy. So easy to just close his eyes and wait for his mind to shut down. But God, it just _wasn't _worth it. Too many times he'd woken her up with a scream; he'd be fighting back, fingers digging into the pillow, legs kicking, and clawing at his chest—unable to handle being tied up again, being threatened, beaten, deep down, sinking into the blackness of that hellish cave, hearing undistinguished foreign voices around him, and that presser on his chest. His chest—he couldn't breathe, there was a pressuring building inside of him, a loud, tremulous yell that still couldn't capture the pain in his chest. A hot, jagged shard was being pushed through him. He beamed sweat, swore and kicked and felt the burning as corners of his eyes explode into tears.

But yet there was Pepper. She'd wake him. Wake him long before his cries got to any audible level. Long before any of the other Avengers would ever hear him, ever know his shame. She was there, holding him together, holding him from breaking into a thousand pieces, curling around his cold, clammy body with warmth that eased his shaking. She'd wrap her arms around his chest, and crush her softness into him, closing off the light of the Arc Reactor, and soon, he wouldn't be Tony Stark anymore. He'd be nothing but a small, mass of a man that knew nothing but Virginia holding every bit of his universe to the earth with the sound of her heartbeat against him. And, somehow, through metal and blood, pain and tragedy: his would beat back at her.

He'd know he'd be okay.

He'd know he was _alive._

"Is… that keeping you… alive?" Steve's voice shocked Tony out of his ramblings, his brown eyes wide, nervous for a moment that Steve sincerity was so good it could read his thoughts.

Tony chuckled faintly, taping the glowing circle in his chest. "If you want the technical answer, then yes."

Steve's voice grew faint for a moment. "May I ask how that happened to you?"

Tony glanced down at his chest, the dark depths of his eyes suddenly aglow with the blue light itself, and vocal cords internally chuckling over '_May I_' 40's mannerish bullshit. "Ah, well, if we're going to be swapping stories like this, then I think we're going to need something stronger than coffee."

Before Steve could wrap his shell-shocked mind around his own question of _what could be stronger than coffee? _Tony had leaned up from the table, his back already to Steve as he reached just one shelf higher than the coffee mugs to grasp a quarter bottle of bourbon whiskey. Tony quickly landed two tumblers next to their mugs, and poured in generous amounts of the liquor before he set the bottle on the table between them, no need for the lid.

Tony slid the opposite tumbler across the smooth surface of the table towards Steve like he was an old hat at bar tending. The glass hit gently, bouncing a bit off of his closed knuckles. Steve quickly glanced at the tumbler and then back to the genius before him, his blue eyes equal parts gratitude and consternation. The dismay was evident in Steve's expression, even as he politely hoisted the glass up and let the burn of the whiskey ride smoothly down his throat.

Tony watched him closely out of one eye. "What? Too astringent for ya? You know, I think if I look hard enough, I might be able to find something dad might've left. Maybe even something from your time." Tony winked.

Steve frowned into his sip, nearly letting the whole of the drink wash straight down his throat, willing that long forgotten buzz of intoxication to follow. It never came.

"N-no," He stammered suddenly, already taken back that Tony was being well…this…courteous to him. This open. There was no shame, no mock, no scorn. Just…genuine friendliness. Tony cocked an eyebrow at him. Steve pulled himself together a bit better.

"I mean, no, it's fine. It's uh—good. Real good. But, ah…"

"Yes?" Tony edged on, already on his third mouthful.

Steve sucked in a breath before he finally confessed, the words tumbling out fast:

"I can't get drunk."

This caused Tony to freeze mid-swallow, his dark eyes surprisingly calm. He merely continued to finish his drink before setting it sensibly back onto the table. He then cleared his throat, folded his hands.

"What was that, Captain?"

"I said, Tony, that I can't get drunk."

Tony kept his eyes to the Captain, one hand feeling blindly for the bottle, nearly knocking it over.

"No. No way. You're shitting me."

"Believe me," Steve allowed himself a small, sad, side smile that twisted up his ill complexion and made him appear all the more vulnerable. "Sometimes I wish I wasn't."

"Wow." Was all that Tony responded with. And for a brief while, the pair was silent. When Tony spoke again, it only came out as a bit of a rumbled laugh. "That really sucks."

"So…how did that happen, again?" Steve asked, gingerly sipping his coffee, washing away the taste of alcohol for something warm and more recognizable.

Tony fixes his eyes on Steve before he begins, wondering where to start.

When he opens his mouth next, he's suddenly no longer in the kitchen sitting with Steve.

He's there, seconds before the explosion that changes his life for a second time after his parents one way trip. Soon, he's waking up in the cave, hooked to a battery, and there's blood, shadows, and faithlessness. His words aren't vocal anymore—they're gunfire. They're the screaming of the terrorist chasing after him in his first Iron Man suit, and the whimpers from Yinsen's body cooling his in hands. His blinks, fighting back the dry taste of the sand, the chill of the water, dripping in the cave, the brightness of the sun that seemed to be burning his flesh because his Arc Reactor is failing, and the suit is too hot, and the flames are too hot…

But there's hope. There's seeing Pepper's face again. There's his mother's wishes, and his father's pride. There's his company, and his ambitions, and his mind and he knows that he can't die here. He can't be the victim anymore, and before he knows it, he's telling Steve everything that comes to his mind, and, retrospectively, watches Steve's reaction. When he gets to Pepper, he notices Steve's eyes becoming darker and darker, but his shaking has evened out a little better.

When Tony finishes, he finds himself completely exhausted, and staring blearily at Steve with a look on his face that he can't quite think of naming. It's something of an expression that only people of this kind of tiredness, frankness, and suffering can wear. Tony braces himself for Steve's rebuttal. He braces himself to hear of men exploding, or burning bodies, mustard gas, and screaming. Young, practically children themselves, men, dying on German shores, lost in freezing, black waters. But there is nothing but contemplative silence. Unlike so many Tony has told his story to, he always leaves out his feelings. But now he's bared them, and he waits for any type of emotion. Confusion. Anger. Bitterness. Regret. Sadness.

But Steve continues to look on at Tony for a very long time, without saying a single word about his own past, his own battles, or his own nightmares. When Tony thinks about speaking again, digging into _any _other conversation, Steve speaks.

"Were you scared?"

Steve's question spurs a near shudder through Tony's body.

Tony stares hard into Steve's eyes, ripping past the clear, dark blue and finds something glistening there. Red, forlorn, and straining, trying not to show, trying not to notice the faintest trace of tears. Suddenly it all hits Tony like the force of a train. _Here _was common ground. The terror a man feels for his life. For his future. For his past. Tony couldn't believe how obvious it all was now. This whole time…and why he so easily noticed Steve's distress. He knew that dead, lifeless look in his eyes. He knew that fear so palpable that it drips out of one's body. He just didn't want to go there. He didn't want to admit it.

Steve watches as shadow passes over Tony's face that's dark, the cogs of his mind turning. For once in his life, Tony's pain is there on his face, visible. And incredibly insecure.

"Yes," Tony manages, his voice hoarse and unlike himself. Steve's eyes blink slowly, registering.

"Were you?" Tony forces himself to ask, because if he doesn't do it now, he thinks he'll explode from the shared, broken things they'll never say again to each other.

"I was scared, but I knew what I had to do," Steve whispered. "But now, the war is over." His eyes stare deep into Tony's, blue, and crushing, overwhelming, suffocating. An ocean of hidden sadness.

"And I'm still scared," Steve continued softly, "This future is my war."

"Steve, you—can't look at it that way." Tony tries to find the right words. Those aren't it.

"I know Tony, but," He tries to breath in, but he can't get enough air. "What people tell you, and what you feel, they don't always seem savvy."

"I know, but—" Tony finds himself scrambling for words, something he's never had to do in his entire life. He's so bad at this. _Dammit_, he's so bad at this. _Shit. Fuck._

Suddenly, as if unable to handle talking anymore, Steve is up and on his feet. Tony matches his movements, and turns to pour another cup of coffee, practically burning his hand from working so fast for the drink.

"Tony, it's late. I really shouldn't be up." Steve says easily, noticing Tony's frantic movements.

"Just one more, okay?" _I need more time. _Tony wants to say, nearly dumping the whole bag of sugar into a single cup.

"Tony, I—" _Just give me 60 seconds. I'll find the right thing. I'll find it._

Tony sharply cuts him off, his eyes guarded. "Steve, shut up and sit down."

"Tony," Steve's tone is exasperated, and, finally, Tony calms, turning to get a final look at his friend. He's still trembling, his hair is still a mess, and his eyes are still red around the rim. Tony knows he can't let him leave like this. He can't. He just can't.

_You can't do this to me Steve. People with demons don't get up at goddamn 3 in the morning and listen to other people with demons and just leave when they're finished. No one's that caring. No one's that nice. Heroes like that don't exist._

Steve tries again, this time stuck with the brunt end of the other man's silence. "T—"

"_Steve_," Tony urges, pressing all that he can into the name, all his sorrow, anger, frustration, everything he knew but he didn't know he knew and how much of an ass he feels, not helping, not noticing, but noticing and not being brave enough, man enough to—he turns to press the mug of hot coffee into his friend's hand, his dark eyes searching, seeking for a way to let him know that he doesn't have to leave. Yeah. That's what it's boiled down to. That he'd stay. _It's okay. _He wants to say. _It's okay_, his eyes seemed to desperately flash, and the words are stuck deep in his throat, sinking into his chest, touching his damaged heart. He's _losing._ Tony Stark never loses at anything, but he's _losing Steve Rogers._

Steve curled his fingers along the handle, pulling it away from Tony.

"Thanks, Tony. Really," Steve pulled in a deep breath, and turned towards the hall, padding back to his bedroom. Tony could only stare after him. Gently, Steve comes to a stop. "This was…really nice."

Tony nods, unable to move. "Yeah, well. You know my dirty little secret now." That earned a slight smile from the Captain. "I'll be awake,"_ if you need me_, Tony actually felt himself wanting to add, but he didn't.

"I know," was all that Steve said. He lifted a still trembling hand and waved goodnight to the billionaire, and disappeared into the darkness without hesitation. Tony felt like the wind had been knocked out of him suddenly as he found himself sinking into a chair.

_Steve Fuckin' Rogers. Always the God damn good guy. Always the brave solider._ Tony blinked hard, finding that he had a bit of rage curling around his thoughts. He knew he didn't really mean it at Steve, though. He continued to glare into the darkness, staring hard at the shadows that the light of his Arc Reactor just couldn't reach. _You'll do it _all_ alone, won't you? You'll go into battle alone. You'll stand up alone. _Tony poured himself another drink, bringing it to his lips. His gaze softened as his thoughts trailed.

_You'll awake up alone. You'll eat alone, if you have to. You'll survive this whole damn world, alone._

Tony shot the drink down, letting the burn soothe down his throat. He closed his eyes.

_There's only a few things I can handle alone._ Tony thought, swallowing thickly. _But I couldn't do the loneliest of all things. No. Not after that. Not after all I've seen, all I've done. Thank God I have Pepper. Thank God. Because I'm not crazy enough. Or strong enough. Or maybe broken enough. Or complete, or lost enough to survive such a feat._

He breathed out slowly through his nose.  
_  
_  
_I could never _sleep _alone._

* * *

"Is this your first time losing a solider?"

Steve's voice was eerily quiet in the chilled silence of the air carrier hold. Tony couldn't bring himself to look at Steve, but he could sense it, imagine it in the back of his mind. Steve's eyes were dark, heavy from his past. He wasn't just thinking about Agent Coulson. But Tony couldn't bring himself to even consider caring.

Back then, Tony was glad it was Steve that had cornered him. Glad that when he looked around, the room filled with the blood of a good man on it's walls, it was the Captain that filled his red tinted version, fueled his growing rage, his hate. His bitterness. Tony Stark felt played. Played with, and played at by his own game. He was a hero, God dammit! And People. People didn't just up and die like this. Knowing they won't win. Didn't make such a STUPID move to attack a God. He told Fury this crap. He didn't sign up for this. He didn't sign up to feel like he wasn't the best of the best, and that he couldn't save the world all on his own.

_Because is this what being a solider gets you?_ Tony's thoughts grinded together, the gears of his mind shooting livid sparks._ Locker full of collector cards from a forgotten hero? So you'd what, be like him? Be like _him?_ Your death, all for nothing?_

His chest heaved suddenly as he violently rounded on Steve, because this _wasn't_ his fault. It was _Steve's. _Tony screaming the words, spit flying from his mouth, his dark eyes so full of hatred right then for the war hero, he couldn't even stand it himself. So he spat it out. Every word like it was it's own sentence, turning them into a weapon that would burn the prideful destitution of surviving a practically ancient war, for men that he didn't know, he didn't want to know, to disgrace the honnor and the legend that was Captain America. He cursed them at him, as if that would make them any more true:

_"We are NOT soldiers!"_

* * *

Tony's past words rang in his own head, chilling him to the bone.

His mug shook ever so slightly.

* * *

**AN: **I don't know what to say to you lovely readers except that I am so sorry. This chapter was hard. I was scared of writing this. I didn't think I'd be able to pull it off. Give it emotion, and respect that it so completely deserves. Not just for Tony and Steve, but any person effected by war. But I'm glad I did it. I'm actually a little proud of this one. I won't ask for reviews. I know I don't deserve them. But for anyone still reading….thanks. I'm humbled. I focused less on details in this chapter and more on the passing of dialogue between conversation, and how conversation flows from topic to topic. I hope that's more of a helpful thing than not. If so, I'll gladly add more detail.

**P.S:** Unnatural lighthouse of sarcasm and beguile. Sweat monkey. The amazing things I make when I put my fingers to the keys. The hell I type, you guys.


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